


Downstream

by ladydirewolf1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1970s, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American South, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Joffrey is a jerk, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, On the Run, Platonic Margaery/Sansa, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 91,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: Sansa Stark is just a girl from the southern town of Westeros, Virginia. She has it all -- a good name and a wealthy family, her flirty best friend Margaery Tyrell, and an invitation to the most prestigious event of the year, Petyr Baelish's debutante ball. But when the handsome, mysterious Jaime Lannister shows up after a decade away, Sansa realizes that this little town is far more dangerous than she could ever imagine. It's the summer of 1977, and there's more than just humidity in the air.**COMPLETED**





	1. It's Summer, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Supertramp's beautiful song "Downstream" -- I highly recommend having a listen before reading :)

**Westeros, Virginia – Sunday June 5, 1977**

            The wind tickled the nape of Sansa’s neck, blowing back her long auburn locks now curled at the tips from the humidity. She plucked a flower from the honeysuckle bush creeping onto the front porch, then began to pry it open as she frowned at the estate across the street.

            A man she didn’t know sat on the Lannister’s peeling white stoop, a magazine rolled up into one hand, a cigarette dangling from the other. Sansa guessed he was in his mid-thirties, with long golden hair and a five o’clock shadow speckled with grey. Although it was technically still spring, and they still had three weeks of senior year left, the air was so hot and heavy that the stranger wore only a white t-shirt and Levi’s ripped at one knee. Sansa couldn’t really tell from the distance, but judging on the way he kept absently plucking at his collar, the cotton was already drenched in sweat.

            _Finally, something interesting,_ Sansa mused as she peeled apart the pistol of her honeysuckle. When a bead of nectar began to form, she stuck it in her mouth, sucking out the sweet honey while she continued to study the man. He looked _so_ familiar, but even as she racked her brain every which way to place him, a name just wouldn’t pop up. If he was sitting on _that_ porch, then he was probably a Lannister or a friend of their family—maybe a distant cousin or whatever. The blonde hair certainly fit the bill.

            The man took a drag of his cigarette, and his eyes lifted to meet hers. He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth, then returned to his magazine with an air of cool indifference.

            Disappointed, Sansa spat out the flower, wiped her palms on her lilac sundress, and jumped down from her perch on the porch railing. Apparently the man chain-smoking outside Casterly Rock wasn’t interested in the seventeen year-old girl across the street. But that didn’t mean Sansa wasn’t interested in him.

 

            Westeros, Virginia. Sansa had lived her whole life nestled in this western corner of the state. It was a town tourists only passed through on their way to better places, a community ringed by thick swamp, dense forest, and countless mines and quarries. Unlike most towns this far out in the state, Westeros didn’t survive on the backs of its farmers. They had the Old Houses for that.

            The Old Houses had planted their roots in this area long before the civil war, and it was their gold, coal, and mineral mines that kept the town alive to this day. Stark, Lannister, Tully, Martell, Tyrell, Greyjoy, Arryn—these were the names that decorated every statue, bench, and building in Westeros. The Houses had built fine estates all along the Blackwater river, and the path that connected them all was nicknamed the Kingsroad by the poorer folk on the opposite shore.

            Today, most of the Houses had left behind the mining business for more modern stuff—banking and business and the like—and only Sansa’s family, the Starks, and the family across the street, the Lannisters, were left digging. It was dirty work, or so her dad sometimes said over the dinner table after a long day cooped up in his office in town. And sometimes, when he came home later than expected, or disappeared for weeks on end, Sansa wondered if there was more than dirt staining her father’s hands.

 

            Sansa strode briskly past her house and the one across the street, wanting to look back to see if the man was watching, but afraid to show her interest. The dusty gravel road stabbed at her bare feet, and Sansa soon found her pace quickening, and her teeth biting back winces. Where the road began to curve and the river peeked through the trees, Sansa turned sharply to the left and crossed back onto the fringes of Winterfell’s property. Here, the flat ground that their manor sat on descended into a steep slope made slippery from the dewy grass. Sansa pressed her heels into the earth as she scurried down, her hands out to keep her balance, her knees bent to keep her upright. She was almost running by the time the hill evened out, and she smiled giddily as she flung open the Tyrell’s back iron gate and stepped into Highgarden.

            Winterfell, Highgarden, Casterly Rock—Sansa had always thought the names of the estates were so silly, though when she was younger and kids at school teased her, she always spat back the name _Winterfell_ with pride. At least she didn’t live in the town’s trailer park like most of the kids in town. The names were grander than the estates ever were, even when the mining money flowed like the Blackwater and workers came in every other day to build gazebos and verandas, boathouses and greenhouses. Winterfell got its name not because they got more snow than the rest of the estates, but from its great hill that separated it from the neighboring property. Come winter, every kid in the neighborhood came trudging through the snow with their sleds dragging behind them. Sansa’s mom would put an endless pot of hot cocoa on the stove, and when the kids’ hands turned bright red and their noses redder, they’d knock their boots on the front stoop, sit around the fire, and warm themselves with Catelyn Stark’s famous recipe.

            It was easy to guess how Highgarden got its name—flower beds, bushes, and groves covered almost every inch outside the grand manor home. Sansa picked through the gardens now as she made her way towards the house’s back door, and she stopped more than once to stick her nose in the flowers and sigh in the perfumed scents.

            “Afternoon, Ms. Tyrell,” Sansa said cheerfully as she closed the screen door behind her. She could see the elderly woman bent over an open oven in the bright, country kitchen, and as she passed quickly by, Olenna called back, reminding her curtly to hose down her feet before stepping on her new carpeting. Olenna hated that Sansa still ran around barefoot like a kid more than her mother did.

            She found Margaery in her pastel themed bedroom, posing in front of her antique mirror. A pout played on her lips as she observed her backside in a pair of cutoffs. “What do you think?” Margaery asked, glancing at Sansa in the mirror.

            Sansa closed the door and plopped down on the bed. “I think my mama would kill me before letting me go to school dressed in those,” Sansa answered, eyeing her friend’s pale thighs. The denim covered her ass and not much else.

            Margaery snorted. “These ain’t for school, silly,” she said, unbuttoning the tight shorts and shimmying out. “They’re for summer.”

            “She’d kill me for saying _ain’t_ too,” Sansa said. She turned around on the bed and laid back, letting her head dangle off the edge and sticking her feet up on the pale pink wall. Her sundress fell around her hips, but Sansa didn’t mind. She and Margaery had been friends since before kindergarten—any qualms about seeing each other’s bodies died out long ago. And besides, Sansa liked looking at her legs like this, all exposed and long. She had snuck her mom’s razor from her parents’ shower, and her skin was buttery smooth for the first time in a while.

            Margaery rustled around in her closet for a minute, then she pulled on a floral skirt, still shorter than the ones Sansa ever wore, and plopped down at her vanity. “What do you need hotpants for anyway?” Sansa asked as Margaery began teasing her feathered, light-brown hair.

            “Sansa, honey, we’re graduating _high school_. This is our first summer as grownups. If you want people to start treating you like one, you’ve gotta look like one.”

            Sansa frowned at her bare legs, and she wiggled her toes. _Boys, you mean._ _If you want boys to start treating you like one._ Ever since freshman year, boys were pretty much all Margaery cared about—boys, and the clothes she wore for them. “Mamma doesn’t like buying me that sort of stuff,” she told her. It was only kind of a lie—Sansa never _asked_ her mom for the clothes Margaery wore. Instead she got sundresses and button-ups, simple jeans and pattered skirts. They were always nice, and definitely nicer than what kids on the other side of town wore, but every time she got dressed in the morning, she felt like a little girl. She was going to be eighteen in two weeks. No matter what her mom thought, she wasn’t going to be a little girl much longer.

            “Do you think…” Sansa began, before she flipped herself upright. “Do you think I could borrow them sometime?”

            “The shorts?”

            “Yeah, and whatever other scandalous things you’ve got hidden in there.”

             “Scandalous? Well, I’d never!” Margaery sang, putting on a heavier, southern twang. “Miss Stark, I’ve never kissed a boy in my whole little life.”

            Sansa laughed. Margaery had done far more than that—Renly Baratheon before he went off to college, Trystane Martell at a sophomore year party, Sansa’s adopted brother Jon before he ran off to that commune in Alaska—and those were just the boys Margaery had told Sansa about. Last summer rumors swirled through Westeros that Margaery had been spotted in Oberyn Martell’s shiny new Impala, though Sansa had never dared to ask if those rumors were true.

            “Me neither,” Sansa said as Margaery’s face finally broke into smile and she erupted with giggles.

            “Seriously?” When Sansa nodded, Margaery spun around, her half-teased hair forgotten. “What about Joffrey?”

            _Joffrey_. Even his name turned her sour. “We never got that far.”

            “But didn’t you go on a date? To that little soda shop in town?”

            They had gone on that date, and it had been going just fine until Joffrey slid a hand up her skirt beneath the table. Joffrey had driven them in his convertible, and she had been delighted to be seen in town in the pretty, red car. But after he groped her, Sansa had ran out of the shop, and she was forced to walk home in the spring rainstorm. Instead of a first kiss, all she got was a head of soaking wet hair and a touch then sent her stomach churning.

            “That’s all right!” Margaery said, putting on a smile. She turned back to her mirror. “Joffrey’s a real asshole anyway. You don’t want your first kiss with a boy like that.” Sansa hummed in agreement. “What you need, Sansa, is a _man_.”

            “A man?”

            “Oh, yeah. I know you’ve got a thing for the older ones.”

            Sansa’s cheeks grew hot, and she stared pointedly at her dirty feet. “I don’t! And I never should have told you about that.”

            Margaery giggled. “That’s not what it seemed like while you were _drooling_ over Mr. Baelish at last year’s Christmas party.”

            Sansa groaned and buried her head in her hands. With her face hidden, a tiny smile emerged on her lips. “I was not drooling. I had just…I just wasn’t expecting my mom’s old friend to look like…”

            “Like a wealthy, older bachelor ready to whisk you far away from this town?”

            _Exactly like that._ “Well he’s gone now,” Sansa muttered, lifting her head. She sighed as the blood rushed away from her face. “So it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

            Margaery set down her teasing comb and smiled at her work. Her hair was a few inches bigger than before, like in the magazines. Sansa had tried the style before, but her mom had forced her to brush it out before she could leave the house. Margaery stepped back over to her closet, then emerged with the cutoff shorts in her hand. She tossed them to Sansa, who caught them, surprised.

            “What are these for?” she asked, examining the light blue denim. She ran a finger down the inseam. _God, they really are short._

            “You asked to borrow them, right? As your bestest, most generous friend, I’m giving them to you.”

            “Why?”

            Margaery rolled her eyes. “It’s summer, darling. And you’re not going to find a grownup boy to kiss looking like that.”

            The shorts seemed more like the thing to catch the eye of the high school boys she knew, but what _did_ she know? “Ok, ok, I’ll keep them,” Sansa said as Margaery clapped her hands in delight. She hiked her dress and slipped the shorts on underneath, then moved over to the mirror. She had to admit—they did look pretty good, though Sansa felt fairly scandalized at the amount of thigh they showed. She quickly dropped her dress to hide them. “Thanks, Marg.”

            “Anytime, anytime,” Margaery sang. She wrapped her arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “Now, my grandmother has decided to usurp the kitchen to bake fruit cake all day. _Please_ tell me you’ve got something to eat at your house or I might just starve.”

 

            They walked on the main road back to Winterfell instead of taking the tiresome path back up the hill, and by the time Sansa’s house was even in sight, both their necks were slick with sweat. Margaery gathered her hair in her hands and walked like that, arms curved up like a dancer.

            “You’re going to ruin your hair,” Sansa said. Her foot came down an a particularly sharp stone, and she grimaced. She really did have to start wearing shoes, or her feet would be torn up before summer break even started.

            Margaery pouted, trying to look coy, and Sansa laughed. “Haven’t you heard? All the boys like a messy, just rolled out of bed with a perfectly tousled, teased head of hair look.”

            Sansa rolled her eyes and pushed her own hair over one shoulder. Up ahead, the sandy bricks of Casterly Rock rose out from behind the trees. Sansa’s gaze fell to the porch, and sure enough, the strange man was still there. His back was to them, thankfully, and they were still a good distance away that he couldn’t hear them.

            “Do you know who that is?” Sansa asked, frowning. “That man over there.”

            “Huh. That’s…no, it can’t be.”

            “What?”

            Margaery stopped and let go of her hair. “That’s Jaime Lannister,” she whispered. 

            _Jaime Lannister_. The was it. That’s why he seemed so familiar, yet still so strange. Jaime Lannister had not stepped foot in Westeros in a decade, from what she remembered. She had been a kid then, just seven years old, and only a vague image of a younger Jaime Lannister swam forward in her mind. In the memory, she saw a campfire, and people drinking, and fireflies flickering all around, but nothing else. “What do you think he’s doing here?” Sansa asked as they continued on, their voices hushed, their pace slower.

            “I have no idea,” Margaery admitted. “I don’t even know why he left.” For Margaery to say that, something odd really was going on. Margaery always seemed to know everything about everything and everyone in this town. Most secrets were not kept secret for long in Westeros, and Margaery was usually the first to know.

            “I’ll ask my dad when he gets home tonight,” Sansa said as they neared closer. “Do you think your grandmother would know?”

            “If she does, I doubt she’d tell me. ‘Those Lannisters are trouble, every damn, golden one of them’,” Margaery said, mimicking Olenna’s firm tone. They were only a few feet away now, though on the side of the road by Winterfell, and Jaime still hadn’t looked back at them. More cigarette butts littered his spot on the stoop, and he still had the magazine open on his knees. Margaery suddenly grabbed Sansa’s arm, and she bent in towards Sansa’s ear. “Let’s go say hello,” she whispered. Before Sansa could object, Margaery was already dragging her across the street.

            Finally, when they stopped right in front of him, Jaime looked up. As Margaery let go of Sansa’s arm, Jaime’s eyes drifted unabashedly over Margaery, then Sansa. He took a drag of his cigarette and set down his magazine.

            “Hi, I’m Margaery, and this is Sansa,” Margaery said cheerfully as Sansa felt her cheeks redden. “We don’t see too many new faces around here.”

            Jaime’s lips parted, and a breath of sweet tobacco washed over Sansa’s face. “I’m not new,” he answered casually, his eyes on Margaery. His voice was deep and smooth, not raspy like some of the smokers Sansa knew.

            Margaery’s smile faltered slightly, but she managed to keep it up and pretty. “We hadn’t heard you’d be back in town, Jaime.”

            His brows lifted in surprise, and Sansa wondered if he even recognized them—if Sansa really had met this man at some party like her memory seemed to think, then they would have both been little girls then, sticky-handed and chubby cheeked. Jaime raised his cigarette to his lips again, and he looked away into the distance. Apparently he didn’t have much to say to them, which Sansa was more than ok with. Up close, he was even more handsome, and Sansa felt even more ashamed for thinking a man this old and apparently rude could be hot.

            Margaery took his nonresponse in stride, and she leaned back against the railing post, one leg bent at the knee, one hand twirling her hair to expose her neck. “Aren’t you gonna be a gentleman and offer us some smokes?” she asked, smiling coyly.

            He smirked. “I wouldn’t go around assuming every man you meet is a gentleman, sweetheart.” Jaime reached down for his pack and thumbed out two cigarettes. He gave one to Margaery, then held one out to Sansa. She shook her head; after seeing what cigarettes did to Jon’s lungs when he smoked a pack a day as a teenager, she hadn’t been interested. Jaime shrugged and offered Margaery his lighter.

            “I wouldn’t go around telling people you’re not a gentlemen,” Margaery said, before taking a drag. She held the cigarette delicately between her fingers, and when her lips closed around it, she looked just like the models in the magazine ads. Suddenly, Sansa wished she hadn’t declined his offer.

            “And why’s that?” Jaime asked.

            “Because this town isn’t the kind of place to welcome discourteous strangers,” Sansa answered before Margaery could come up with some flirty reply. Jaime’s eyes flickered over to her, and his lips curved into an amused smile around his cigarette. Sansa felt her heart quicken beneath those emerald eyes as he searched her face.

            “I don’t think you know what kind of place this really is.”

            Whatever confidence that had emboldened her to answer drained away, and Sansa’s cheeks grew hot. She glanced at Margaery, who looked similarly at a loss for words. Sansa’s lips parted as she tried to think of something witty to retort when a voice called out from across the street.

            “Sansa, Margaery!”

            Their heads snapped towards Winterfell. Ned Stark stood behind the front screen door, and even through the mesh Sansa could see his displeasure.

            “Better run along,” Jaime drawled, chuckling. He plucked the cigarette right from Margaery’s fingers.

            Margaery straightened up, and she gave Jaime her best beauty pageant smile. “It was nice to meet you, Jaime.” She eyed Sansa. “Right, Sansa?”

            Sansa tried to match Margaery’s smile, but the unsettled feeling in her belly kept it cold. “Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

            “My pleasure,” Jaime said, the corners of his mouth pulled taut.

            They turned around and ran back to her father holding open the front door, and Sansa swore she could feel Jaime’s eyes on them even after the door shut firmly behind them.

 

* * *

 

            As soon as Winterfell’s door closed, the smile faded from Jaime’s face, and he snuffed out the two cigarettes on his boot. Jaime ran a hand over his jaw, rubbing the scratchy, sweaty skin, then he sighed. He hadn’t expected for the girl to come up to him. Her little, flirty friend had done that, though Jaime thought he handled the Tyrell girl well.

            Jaime reached for his magazine, and he thumbed through a couple sleek pages of shiny cars and skinny girls before he found what he was looking for.

            Nestled between a perfume ad and a gossip column was a photograph he’d placed there. Jaime lifted it up, and his eyes ran over each member of the Stark family before settling on her. She stood with her arm around a black-haired, solemn boy, a grin on her mouth despite the long faces of the rest of her family forced to take the yearly Christmas card photo.

            Jaime brushed over Sansa’s Stark face with his fingertip, then his eyes raised back towards the door she had disappeared behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I'm nervous to see what ya'll will think because it's so different from what I usually write. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you're excited as I am for this new story.
> 
> **Thank you to @sweetaprilbutterfly for the beautiful cover art!


	2. The Invitation

           

            “You’re late for dinner.”

            “We usually wait for you to get home,” Sansa said carefully.

            “I left work early,” Ned answered before turning around. Even though he didn’t sound upset anymore, Sansa could still see the anger etched into his face. She met Margery’s wary eyes, then they followed her father down the hallway into the kitchen. When they stepped into the room filled with honey stained, rustic furniture and matching cabinets, Catelyn looked over from the stove, and Arya and Bran fell silent. Little Rickon, to his credit, grinned and shouted hello.

            “Margaery,” Catelyn said, shooting her a warm smile as she carried a casserole over to the table. “Does your grandmother know you’re here?”

            “Yes.” Margaery smiled sweetly.

            “Good. You’re welcome to stay for dinner.”

            The girls took the empty seats at the end of the table, with Sansa beside Bran in his wheelchair and Rickon beside Margery. No one spoke as her mother spooned out tuna casserole. The ceiling fan hummed overhead, forks clinked against dishes, and the tension in the room grew with every rhythmic thud of Rickon’s foot smacking against the table leg. Sansa squirmed in her seat and stared willfully out the window at the sky glowing gold with the setting sun.

            Margaery cleared her throat. “Arya, could you pass the pepper?”

            Arya squinted at Margaery. “Who was that creep you were talking to?”

            “ _Arya_ ,” Catelyn chastised. “Pass Margaery the pepper.”

            Her sister grabbed the shaker. “What, is he like your boyfriend or something?”

            “Listen to your mother,” Ned told her, picking up his glass of water.

            Arya shot him an incredulous look. “But—”

            He slammed his glass back down.

            Sansa flinched. Margery’s eyes widened. Catelyn pursed her lips. Arya and Bran stared their plates, and Rickon burst into a fit of giggles.

            “We will not discuss Jaime Lannister at the dinner table,” Ned said slowly. He tapped the side of his glass with his fingertips, like he was giving it an apologetic pat. “And I don’t want to catch you speaking with him again,” he said, his gaze falling to Sansa’s end of the table. “Either of you.”

            “Can I talk to him?” Bran piped up. When Catelyn gave him an exasperated look, he said, “What? You only said the girls couldn’t.”

            “Hey, I’m a girl too!” Arya blurted out.

            “No,” Ned said through gritted teeth. “And that means all of you.”

            Her father’s voice was so damn serious—and not that he wasn’t _always_ serious, but Sansa could tell there was something different going on here…her father looked scared. “Is he dangerous?” Sansa asked softly.

            Ned tore his eyes away, scooted in his chair, and picked up his fork. A mouthful of casserole passed his lips, and the rest picked up their forks to continued eating. Sansa had his answer.

            Jaime Lannister was dangerous—and even worse, he terrified her father.

 

            “Thanks for staying,” Sansa muttered. She and Margaery stood by the open screen door, but she kept her voice down. Catelyn had moved to the living room to watch some late night soap, but the volume was low, and Sansa was pretty sure she were listening.

            “Anytime, darling.”

            “See you at gym class?”

            “See you at gym class.”

            Once Margaery was safely out the door, Sansa marched into the living room and rounded on her mother. “I want to know what dad was talking about.”

            “You heard him.”

            “Yeah, but I want to know _why_ he’s supposedly dangerous.”

            Catelyn turned the TV remote over in her hands, and she kept her eyes on the toilet paper ad playing on the screen. “I don’t know.”

            “I don’t believe you.”

            Catelyn’s eyes shot up, and the ice in the pale blue was clear as day. “Tell me, Sansa. Was it Margaery that convinced you to go up to him? Because I know my daughter, and I know I taught her better than to approach strange men— _Lannister_ men.” She spit the name out like it was poison.

            “It wasn’t Margaery’s fault.” Catelyn raised a questioning brow, and Sansa tapped her foot on the carpet in frustration. “We were just—we were just curious! Ok? It’s no big deal.”

            “Just curious…” Catelyn breathed back, shaking her head. “The next time your friend Margaery gets ‘curious’ about something, do yourself a favor and stay out of it.”

            Sansa folded her arms across her chest. “Or what?”

            “Or you’re grounded and your birthday party’s canceled.”

            Sansa’s mouth fell open in surprise, then she smashed her lips together and closed her teeth over her tongue. _God, she really is dramatic, isn’t she?_ Sansa thought as she stormed upstairs to her room. _She’s just bitter. Bitter that I’m almost eighteen and a grownup and am never going to be her little girl again. Bitter that she can’t keep me locked up in this house forever._

Sansa threw herself on her bed, stuck her legs up, and kicked her heels against the wall. Hard. Arya’s muffled curse came shooting back from the room next door, and Sansa stuffed a pillow over her mouth before she screamed. Something banged against the wall—probably a textbook—followed by Arya shouting “shut up!” and slamming her bedroom door. Sansa cursed, then she leapt off her bed, stomped one door over down the hall, and flung open her sister’s door.    “This is your fault!” she seethed. “You just _had_ to act like a bitch at dinner and bring it up.”

            Arya sat on her navy blue bed, her leather-bound diary flat against her drawn knees. “Dad would have told you off anyway,” Arya said hotly, still scribbling away. “If I were mama, I would have grounded you.”

            Sansa scoffed. “You’re lucky I don’t tell mama every time you sneak out of the house or cut school.” She stepped into her sister’s room towards the messy desk. Her eyes skimmed the half-finished, chicken-scratch math worksheets strewn across piles of dusty textbooks. Catelyn always made sure Sansa’s homework was completed and her work perfect, but oh no, Arya could just get away with whatever she wanted, couldn’t she? “Maybe I should tell her,” Sansa mused, glancing back to Arya.

            Arya’s eyes flicked up, and she smirked. “Nice shorts,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Does mama know you have those?”

            Heat flushed to Sansa’s cheeks, and she looked down to see that her sundress had ridden up with the front panel bunched around her waist. Margaery’s cutoffs were still on. Sansa ripped the fabric free and glared at her sister. “Just—just leave me alone,” Sansa muttered. She ran back to her room, slammed the door shut, and stopped in front of her full-length mirror.

            Her fingers crept up, and she slowly pushed the straps of her dress from her shoulders, then tugged it the rest of the way down. When she stepped out, she stood only in Margaery’s shorts— _her_ shorts—and a bra. It was creamy, lacey thing, with a little pale bow nestled between her small breasts. Sansa fingered the girly detail, then ran her hand over her stomach.

            _I still look like a stupid little girl_ , she thought, twisting her hips. The redhead in the mirror’s waist narrowed from the angle, and she drew her arms uncomfortably inward, pressing her breasts together to give the illusion of cleavage. _And now I just look stupid._ Sansa’s arms fell limply to her sides. _A stupid little girl playing dress up._

Sansa sighed and resolved to give Margaery back the shorts. Before long Catelyn would find them, and her birthday party would be canceled as punishment. And besides, she didn’t have anyone to look sexy for even if she tried.

 

* * *

 

**Monday June 6, 1977**

Jaime was hunched over the bathroom sink, a towel wrapped around his otherwise bare figure, a toothbrush stuck in his mouth, when the door opened. In the mirror, he saw his sister slink inside. She was already dressed for the day in a mauve little number that accentuated her long, tanned legs and ample cleavage. Cersei was still stunning, but a decade had passed, and he couldn’t help but notice the little signs of age that seemed so foreign on his twin.

            “When did you get back?” Cersei asked, sauntering up to him. She slid a hand from his shoulder to the soft red towel tied around his waist, her fingers brushing beneath it.

            “Last night,” he told her. Jaime spit out a glob of toothpaste and stuck his toothbrush back in the cup. “You were already sleep.” _At eight o’clock with an empty bottle of wine on your nightstand._

            Cersei’s hand lifted as Jaime turned back to face her. Her golden locks were different now—not the straight, simple style of the young woman he had left behind, but the highly stylized, magazine-ready curls of an aging socialite. Jaime knew he looked no better, not with his jaw-length locks and scruff and scars and collection of crude tattoos, but still, her face startled him. It was foolish, but he never really expected her to change. He always thought she’d be the little girl he used to love.

            “Jaime,” Cersei whispered. Her hands smoothed up his chest to latch on to the sides of his neck. She pressed herself closer, breathed out his name again and again until Jaime touched her too. He held onto her waist and closed his eyes. She was so hot in his hands, so unfamiliar after so long.

            “The kids are still here,” Jaime muttered. “I saw them in the kitchen.”

            “Did they see you?” He shook his head and looked at her through his lashes, saw the smile on her lipstick-stained mouth. “Good.”

            Cersei pulled him closer and tilted his head. Her teeth grazed his jaw, his neck, his earlobe, and Jaime felt something stir inside him. While she had gone to visit him a few times over the past decade, they had not touched since he left in the Sheriff’s car all those years ago. The memory of that time still haunted him—not the handcuffs or the trial or stepping foot in a state prison. It was Cersei’s face that kept him awake so many nights, the way she looked at him through the bars cutting across the backseat window. Her face crumpled like a child’s, innocent and lost and alone. But she wasn’t so innocent now, was she? This woman who married the sheriff for power—who killed the oaf off when he dragged Jaime to prison, endangering them all.

            “No,” Jaime rasped, pushing her away. She tried to yank him closer, to draw his mouth to her own, but Jaime grasped her waist firmly and held her at arm’s length. Her hands dropped, and so did his.

            Cersei wore a look of disgust, and it warped her pretty features, deepened the lines around her mouth. “What’s wrong with you?”

            “Nothing’s wrong,” Jaime said quietly, tugging up the towel where it had sagged around his hips.

            Anger flashed in her emerald eyes. “Ten years, Jaime.” She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, there was a shaky softness to her voice. “Ten years I have been without my brother. My lover.”

            Jaime’s eyes fell to the marble floor, and he glared at a speck of cotton candy blue toothpaste dried onto the stone. “It’s not going to be like that this time.”

            “Like what?”

            His eyes snapped back up to meet hers. “I didn’t come back here to entertain you, Cersei. I’m not here to take the place of your dead husband. When father asked me to help with his plan, I agreed to help him and this family.”

            “But not me?” Cersei asked. “You don’t want to help…me.” Her eyes glinted in the bright bathroom lights. She pressed her lips together and shook her head in disbelief. When her eyes lifted back to his, the tears were gone, and a cold mask had slipped back over her features. “Prison has changed you,” she whispered. “It’s made you weak.” Cersei searched his face, hoping for a reaction, but Jaime gave none but the tightening of his fingers around the edge of the countertop behind him. His sister turned on her heel and strode back towards the open door, then she paused when she reached the threshold.

            “You’ll pick up Myrcella and Joffrey from school day,” she snapped. “Three o’clock.” Cersei looked back over her shoulder. “You can spurn me, Jaime, but if you insist on returning to this family, you’ll have to work for it.”

           

* * *

“They were a _gift_ , Sansa,” Margaery insisted. She took a long drink from her water bottle, then wiped a hand across her mouth. Even that Margaery managed to make look graceful. “Think of them as an…early birthday present.”

            Sansa said nothing. Her birthday was on the 18th, a little less than two weeks away. They had one more agonizing week of school after that. “Thanks,” Sansa muttered, even though she thought it was a bad idea to keep the shorts. She took a drink from her own bottle, then cast her gaze around the gymnasium. Gym was their only class together this year, besides lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays As it was the last period of the day, they always had plenty to talk about while their teacher Tormund (he insisted on going by his first time) barked out orders to run and stretch and always, always drink lots of water. Sansa wasn’t sure if it was because the year was almost over, or because Tormund had given up on forcing the girls in the class to actually exercise, but he said nothing as Sansa and Margaery leaned against the bleachers and pretended to stretch.

            Some of the other girls had plopped down in a far corner, giggling and gossiping. She was sort of friends with some of them—plain-faced Meera, foul-mouthed Asha, and Wylla, who kept her hair a pretty shade of bluish green—but Margaery liked to keep gym class just to them. Sansa didn’t mind. They were best friends, after all.

            “Ooo, look who’s here.” Margaery grinned, and Sansa followed her gaze to the swinging metal doors that kept the gymnasium separate from the wide, locker-lined hallway of the school. King’s Landing High’s principal, Ms. Tarth, strode inside. The enormously tall, blonde woman made a beeline for Tormund, and he nearly dropped his clipboard at the sight of her.

            “Now that’s a man who knows what he wants,” Margaery said with a sly smile. Tormund grinned at Ms. Tarth as they fell into conversation, and more than a few secretive smiles slipped from the principal’s stoic mask.

            “He’ll never get with her,” Sansa said as she watched.

            “You think?”

            “She’s too…prudish.”

            Margaery’s head tipped back in laughter, and she took another swig of water. “Darling, if you think there’s no hope for our dear, monstrously tall principal, then how can there be any hope for a pretty girl like you?” Margaery linked her arm through Sansa’s. “Just watch.”

            Ms. Tarth nodded along to whatever Tormund was saying, her toothy smile wider than ever. To Sansa’s shock, it was Ms. Tarth who made the first move, and her hand came up to rest on Tormund’s bicep as he laughed a deep, belly laugh. Tormund inched closer, pressing up onto his tiptoes to whisper something into the principal’s ear. A wave of scarlet spread over Ms. Tarth’s cheeks.

            “Ok, ok, you’re right,” Sansa relented, rolling her eyes. “Let’s actually pretend to stretch before he looses his goo-goo eyes and looks over here.” Sansa and Margaery sat on the floor, their legs open and their tennis shoes pressed together. Margaery reached for Sansa’s hands, pulling her over at the waist.

            “Poor thing,” Margaery muttered.

            “What?”

            “Pull me over and look up  by the locker room,” Margaery insisted. Sansa complied, and tugged at her friend’s hands. Quickly, her eyes landed on the girl standing by the water fountain. Dany Targaryen pressed the silver button on the machine, but she did not drink as her lonely eyes roamed over the gym.

            “God, she always looks so miserable, doesn’t she?” Sansa muttered. Dany was pretty—prettier than a lot of the girls at King’s Landing—with stormy purple eyes and silver hair that brushed her narrow waist. But there was always a sadness about the girl that kept away all but the nicest girls and the most oafish boys. She had moved to Westeros in the middle of junior year with her older brother Viserys, but it was the wrong side of the river, and girls from the wrong side of town could never really fit in with the rest. That was just the way things were. How they’d always been.

            “I heard a rumor that she’s slept with every boy in the trailer park,” Margaery whispered as they switched turns stretching.

            “A rumor?” Sansa asked, staring at her hair as it brushed the shiny gym floor. Margaery liked to pretend the things she knew were just rumors.

            “Even the older ones,” Margaery continued, ignoring Sansa’s comment. “Even her creepy brother.”

            Sansa sat up, and blood rushed away from her face. She dropped Margaery’s hands and tried to keep the frown from her mouth, tried to keep the thought of how cruel her friend could be sometimes hidden. “Did you ask your grandmother about Jaime?” she asked lightly, changing the subject.

            Margaery’s eyes narrowed for a second before she flashed her usual coy, closed-mouthed smile. “I thought we were supposed to be good little girls and never mention that man again,” she said, arching her brows with the wickedness she reserved for the coquette, southern bell character she loved to put on.

            Sansa rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said, pulling her feet together and stretching her hips.

            Margaery mirrored her. “I asked her when I got home, but unfortunately she didn’t say much. It was strange, really—even after I slipped a little extra gin into her gin and tonic, she acted all weird about it.”

            “Weird how?”

            “I don’t know…like he was some big secret she pretended to forget about.”

            Whatever hopeful curiosity that had grown inside her since last night sputtered out, like a balloon. “Too bad,” Sansa said, trying to hide her disappointment.

            “It was,” Margaery agreed. “But then I called my brother.”

            “Loras?”

            “No, Willlas. Apparently he went to school with Jaime. Went here,” Margaery said, eyeing the room. The girls in the corner paid them no attention, and Dany had disappeared into the locker room. Still, Margaery dropped her voice into a whisper. “Willas says that Jaime disappeared right after graduation.”

            “To go to college?”

            Margaery shook her head. “Rumor has it he was in prison.”

            “Prison!”

            “Apparently.”

            “Did Willas say why?”

            “All he knew was that it was for something terribly violent.” Margaery’s eyes were wide and unblinking on Sansa’s, and she felt a light shudder curl up her spine. “But those are just rumors.”

            Tormund’s voice barked through the gym. “Hit the lockers, boys and girls!” Sansa looked up to see the boys streaming in through the door to the outside, and her eyes roamed their sweat-slickened faces until they landed on Joffrey. He met her eyes with a cold stare.

            Margaery pushed herself up. “Come on,” she said, sticking out a hand. Sansa tore her gaze away and clasped Margaery’s hand with her own.

 

            Students filtered out through King’s Landing’s front doors, laughing and chattering with the easy air of a nearing summer. Sansa and Margaery walked past the meandering lines to the school buses and headed to the path that passed by the pickup area on the way to the main road. Through the crowd, Sansa’s eyes fell on a car she didn’t recognized; a black Mustang with the convertible top rolled down. It was even nicer than Joffrey’s convertible. As a group of freshman cleared past, she saw _him_ leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed against his t-shirt, eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses.

            “Don’t look, but Jaime Lannister is in the pickup lot,” Sansa muttered into her friend’s ear.

            Margery’s gaze swung around. She grinned. “Hot.”

            “Margaery!” Sansa exclaimed, smacking her arm lightly.

            “What? He’s even hotter in the daylight,” Margaery said, smirking. “Let’s see if he remembers us.” Sansa froze, and she guessed her horror was plain as day because Margaery immediately broke into a fit of giggles when she turned around. “Come on, I’m only kidding,” she said, dragging Sansa along. “He’s probably here to pick up Myrcella and Joffrey. He’s their uncle, after all. And besides, I’m not walking that way.”

            Sansa frowned—they always walked the mile and a half home together along the river. “You’re not?”

            “No. I, uh, need to head into town.”

            “What for? Mama probably wouldn’t mind if I got home a little late.”

            “Just old lady stuff for grandmother. Stinky herbs and back pain meds.”

            “Oh.” They had reached the sidewalk, and Jaime and his remarkably nice car were safely behind them. They had gone into town last week to pick up Olenna’s meds, but maybe she needed more. The woman was practically ancient, after all. “See you at lunch tomorrow, then.”

            Margaery shot her a smile. “See ya,” she said, before turning and heading in the opposite direction.

            Sansa began her walk home alone, and as the sweat began to build up behind her knees, she wished desperately to be wearing Margaery’s shorts. Khaki capris, no matter what her mama said, were terribly unpractical for a southern summer. She liked the walk though, and it wasn’t so bad a view with all the untamed forest nestled between the neighborhood and the school. The Blackwater rushed peacefully beside her, and the sound of water slipping over rocks helped to drown out the sound of cars.

            “Sansa!”

            _Joffrey?_

            She whirled around to see the Mustang pull up beside her, its engine still purring. Jaime sat behind the wheel, and even with his sunglasses on, she saw the arrogant, amused look on his face. Joffrey stared up at her from the other front seat, and Myrcella smiled unsurely from her spot in the back.

            “Um, hey Joffrey. Myrcella.” Jaime’s name formed on her tongue, but she kept her mouth closed, remembering what her father and Margaery had said—and what they didn’t say.

            “What are you doing out here?” Joffrey asked, eyeing her up and down. “All alone?”

            “Walking home.”

            The corner of Joffrey’s mouth twitched with a smirk. “I thought you could use a ride. We’re going the same way, after all.”

            Sansa bit her lip. It wasn’t like she could say no. That would be ridiculous. Joffrey was right, even if he was a groping jerk, and refusing would make her seem even more standoffish. Even though their first date had gone so poorly, Sansa hated to think Joffrey could think any less of her. “Ok, thanks,” Sansa said finally, sliding in beside Myrcella. When the car took off again, Sansa eyed the smug expression on Joffrey’s face. She pressed herself into the corner of the leather bench and hugged her backpack to her chest.

            “You look nice,” Joffrey said suddenly, twisting around to face her. “With your…” he gestured towards her. “Hair blowing around like that. Like fire.”

            Sansa self-consciously smoothed a hand over it. She smiled. Some girls hated their red hair, but Sansa had always adored hers. According to everyone, especially her mother, it was her best feature. “Thank you, Joffrey,” Sansa answered. Joffrey nodded like he was pleased. Maybe he didn’t hate her after all—maybe she had been overacting in the soda shop. Hadn’t she wanted him to touch her, to kiss her? She was almost eighteen and virgin who’d never been kissed, never had a boyfriend. Maybe Joffrey really _was_ the man she and Margaery always talked about finding. Sansa took a breath then said in what she hoped was a casual tone, “I’m having a party on the eighteenth.”

            “Yeah? What kind of party.”

            “I’m turning eighteen. You should come. And you too, Myrcella,” she added, smiling at the younger girl. “It’s going to start at eight at Winterfell.” The Mustang slowed to a stop, and Sansa looked up, realizing they’d reached home. Sansa clutched her backpack and took hold of the door handle, but she didn’t move yet.

            “Sounds fun,” Joffrey said, and Myrcella hummed her agreement. Sansa beamed at him before awkwardly fumbling with the door and extracting herself from the car.

            “Awesome,” Sansa said as she slammed it closed. “Awesome,” she said again, before clamping her mouth shut at how lame she sounded.

            Once the car had peeled off into the garage across the street, Sansa rushed inside, dropped her backpack in the hallway, and found her mom going through the mail pile in the kitchen.

            “How was school?” Catelyn asked, not looking up.

            “Uneventful.” She gulped down a cool glass of water from the tap to calm her excitement. Joffrey had said _yes_ , and Sansa could feel the giddiness bubbling up inside her.

            “Did Arya walk home with you?” Catelyn asked as she unfolded a bill.

            “Yeah,” Sansa lied as she refilled her glass. “But she said something about collecting sticks and rocks for an art project? She went into the woods out back. Said she’d be home by dinner.”

            Catelyn hummed her displeasure but said no more. It was entirely plausible that Arya was doing just that—if Arya was actually in an art class. But Catelyn didn’t know that, and it was way easier to lie than to deal with her mother’s reaction to the truth. Arya had met some junior guy last summer before even starting high school, and from what Margaery had told her, the guy was next-door neighbors to the ‘Trailer Park Targaryeans’ as Margaery called them.

            Sansa put her empty glass in the dishrack, but when she turned to go, Catelyn held out something from the mail. “What is it?” Sansa asked, eyeing the envelope.

             “Open it.”

            Sansa did, and when she scanned the letter’s contents, a grin spread over her face.

           

            _Miss Sansa of House Stark is hereby formally invited to present herself at the Westeros debutante ball. The event will be held on the evening of July the 16 th at the Harrenhal estate. Family members of the debutante are welcome to attend. _

_Tradition asks the debutante to be escorted by a young man of acceptable social standing and age. Please respond two weeks prior with your acceptance of the invitation, guest list, and confirmation of your escort._

_Sincerely,_

_Mr. Petyr Baelish_

            “This is only a month away,” Sansa breathed out, reading the letter a second time.

            Catelyn gave her a knowing smile. “I’m happy for you, honey.” Catelyn drew Sansa in for a hug, and Sansa let her, still half-paralyzed with the news. Her mother pressed a kiss against her forehead, and for once, Sansa smiled at being held like her mother’s little girl.

            “Mama, I’m going to need a dress,” Sansa whispered—she was still staring at the letter in awe, and when Catelyn noticed, she chuckled warmly.

            “Don’t worry your head about that,” Catelyn said. “I have just the thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to write this story that I had to get this chapter out right away -- thanks for reading and please let me know what you're thinking after this update!  
> Also I promise we'll get a lot more Jaime/Sansa interactions next chapter, so stay tuned :)


	3. It's Gonna Rain, Sweetheart

****

**Tuesday June 7, 1977**

            “Your mother wants you to wear her old dress? Why don’t you just say no, then we can go buy glorious new gowns together!”

            “Margaery, have you ever heard of me standing up to my mama and getting away with it?”

            “Oh, but I can’t believe it’s _finally_ happening,” Margaery swooned as she bit her carrot stick in half. “I mean, of course I always knew we’d be invited like every other girl with a name in this town, but to finally get the letter…” Margaery threw her carrot back in its bag, cradled her face in her hands, and gazed excitedly across the lunch table at Sansa. “We’re going to be debutantes, darling. Isn’t it wonderful?”

            Sansa smiled as she took a bite of her peanut butter sandwich. “It is,” she agreed truthfully. Between her eighteenth birthday this month and the ball in July, this summer was turning out better than ever. It gave her and Margaery and probably most of the other debutantes something to look forward to with end of high school drawing near. Girls from the Houses didn’t go to college when summer rains made way for the crisp leaves of fall. They didn’t move out of Westeros to seek jobs in east coast cities. They had the debutante ball, then a summer of suntanning and bonfires, then found a man to marry and settle down with. Sansa wasn’t so sure about the last part, but if finding some boy to love and have a family with meant her life could be perfect for just this summer, she’d take it. She’d take it in a heartbeat.  

            “Oh, and don’t forget about the handsome escorts we’re just _required_ to have accompany us,” Margaery giggled. She snapped a celery stick in half.

            “Do you know who’s taking who?”

            Margaery nodded, and she looked towards the table in the middle of the cafeteria where most of the other kids from the Houses sat. “Let’s see…Jojen is taking his sister Meera, obviously,” she said rolling her eyes as she munched. “The two are inseparable in a terribly sweet, non-creepy way. Disgusting, I know.” Her eyes ran across the table to land on a green ponytail trailing down a girl’s back. “Wylla will go with that Frey boyfriend of hers, Walder. As much as she pretends to hate him, you can just tell he’ll ask to marry her as soon as we graduate. Oh, and then Tris Botley will take Asha. She’s a homosexual, but he loves her, and I’m sure their babies will be adorable.”

            “Really?”

            Margaery nodded knowingly. “Then there’s Dany,” she said, turning towards the benches pressed up against the wall. Only the trailer park kids sat there with the gross lunches they had to buy from the school. Dany sat with her legs drawn to her knees, her tray untouched as she braided her silver hair. Usually there were two boys with her, Gendry and Daario, but today only Daario ate beside her. “Apparently she gave Daario a blowjob in the math hallway bathroom, so now he’s taking her to the ball. He thinks he has a chance, poor thing, but really she just did it because she’s bored.”

            “I didn’t think Dany would get an invitation.”

            Margaery waved her hand dismissively, a carrot between her fingers. “Oh, she _shouldn’t_. According to my grandmother, Targaryen girls would get at least three marriage proposals at their debutante ball. It’s that hair, I’m telling you—drives the men in this town mad. Anyway, when their family lost all their money and Dany and her brother moved into the trailer park, no one expected to see them at a ball again.”

            “So what changed?”

            “Mr. Baelish’s mind, apparently. Hot girls always draw more wealthy suitors to the ball.”

            Sansa twisted back around to watch Dany. She _was_ really pretty and petite, but it’s not as if anyone from a respectable family could marry her. Even if she was a debutante. “How do you know all this?” Sansa asked, turning back to her friend.

            Margaery gave her a sly smile. “I know people.” Sansa opened her mouth the ask more, but Margaery cut her off. “So what about you, Sansa? Are you excited for a certain Mr. Baratheon to escort you to the ball?”

            She sighed. “He hasn’t even asked me yet.”

            “But you want him to, right?”

            Sansa folded her hands in her lap, fidgeting with her fingers. A day ago her answer would be ‘no way’, but now… “I think I do,” Sansa finally answered. “He was really sweet yesterday and gave me a ride home.”

            “Really? I thought that Jaime guy picked him and Myrcella up.”

            “Yeah, but it was Joffrey who wanted to pick me up, not Jaime,” Sansa said, her cheeks growing hot despite herself. Before Margaery could laugh, she quickly added, “And he’s super excited to come to my birthday party.”

            “Ooo,” Margaery cooed. She met Sansa’s eyes and playfully snapped off the tip of a carrot with her teeth. “How exciting.”

            “What about you?” Sansa asked casually, trying to steer the convo decidedly away from Joffrey and his hot uncle. “Who do you want to go with?”

            “Trystane, I guess,” Margaery said, shrugging. “I like my boys tall, dark, and rich.”

            Sansa’s brows shot up, and she studied her friend’s suddenly disinterested expression. “Trystane Martell, huh?”

            “Yep.”

            “I hear there’s another Martell who fits that description.”

            Margaery pressed her lips together, but Sansa could tell she was trying to hide a smile. “Is there?”

            Sansa released an exaggerated sigh. “It’s too bad about the rules, isn’t it? How we have to have escorts our own age when every eligible man in Westeros will be at the ball anyway just _dying_ to dance with us and try his luck?”

            The corner of Margaery’s mouth twitched. “Yes,” Margaery agreed. “Too bad.”

            “And if your escort’s handsome, older uncle were to show up at the ball?” She let the question hang in the air, and when Margaery finally met her eyes, there was a genuine, pleased look glimmering there.

            “Are we talking about you now, Sansa?”

            “Don’t change the subject.”

            Margaery twisted a lock of hair, glancing away with a smile. “Those are just rumors, darling.”

            The bell rang, and all around students groaned and packed up their lunches. “I want to hear all about him after school, ok?” Sansa told her as they tossed their garbage in the can and let the flow of students sweep them from the cafeteria.

            Margaery moved towards the opposite hallway from where Sansa was headed, but before she got too lost in the crowd, she turned towards Sansa and grinned. “About who?” she called out. Her laughter was quickly carried away, and Sansa shook her head as she went off towards her next classroom. This summer was either going to make Margaery as happy as she could be, or it was going to leave her absolutely heartbroken.

 

            As soon as the final bell of the day rang, Sansa found Margaery and began peppering her with questions about the rumors surrounding her and Oberyn Martell. But Margaery simply shook her head, insisting that they left the school grounds before she could say a word. Finally, as they stepped onto the cracked sidewalk that would eventually wind its way to the Blackwater and the Kingsroad, Margaery pointed out that they were finally alone.

            “So,” Sansa said eagerly. She clutched the straps of her backpack as she walked. “I want to know everything. Where you met him, what he’s like, what you’ve done—”

            “Sansa!” Margaery laughed, tossing back her hair. “There’s not even much to tell. Late last summer my father invited the Martells to a work thing over at his office.”

            “A party?”

            “Yes, a party. It was a Friday night and I didn’t have anything better to do, so I came along. That’s where we met. Oberyn was…nice. Charming.”

            Of course he was—Margaery’s favorite type of man were the ones who could keep up with her own flirtatious personality. “Did he know how old you were?” she asked. If they had met last summer, then Margaery would have barely just turned seventeen.

            “Yes,” Margaery insisted. “After we kissed in my father’s office.”

            “Margaery!”

            “I know, I know, but I couldn’t help it,” Margaery cried, gripping Sansa’s arm. “There was this lamp making everything all warm and golden, and he told me how beautiful I was, how funny and smart, and before I knew it, we were kind of…making out on my father’s desk.”

            Sansa blushed, picturing the scene despite herself, imagining a mysterious man kissing her as she laid flat against a desk. She felt some kind of tingle down below, and Sansa hitched up her backpack and cleared her throat. _God, what’s wrong with me?_ “So you’ve been seeing him ever since, then? Without telling me?”

            Margaery’s hand slipped away. They walked across the stony bridge that led over the river to their neighborhood, and Margaery watched her feet as she stepped carefully on the stones. “No,” she told her, her foot coming down on a flint-colored slab. “After we kissed, I told him how old I was. Oberyn didn’t seem to mind, but he didn’t want my father to find out before I turned eighteen. Dating your friend’s underage daughter is bad for business, apparently. We met up a few more times last summer and during the school year, but nothing happened.”

            “So you’re just friends, are you?”

            Margaery giggled. “Not exactly. Now that I’m eighteen, we’re going to start seeing each other for real.”

            “Seriously?”

            Margaery sighed happily as they stepped off the bridge. Now with the river on their right side, the forest surrounding the Estates became thicker, and the trees older. Before long, the highest tips of Winterfell and Casterly Rock’s roofs would peek out from above the dark canopy. “We have our first date tonight, actually,” Margaery said. “At some fancy restaurant a few towns over.”

            Sansa frowned at that. “Why not in Westeros?”

            Margaery shrugged, but when Sansa looked at her face, she could tell that it upset her a bit. “It’s too soon for everyone to know. I’m too young, and the ball hasn’t even happened yet…” Suddenly she reached out, grasping Sansa’s hand. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” 

            Sansa squeezed her friend’s fingers, smiling. “Of course not. As long as you promise to be safe.”

            “I promise.”

            “You really like him, don’t you?”

            Margaery cast her gaze to the houses emerging in front of them, a secretive smile playing on her lips. “Yeah,” she said softly. “He makes me happy.”

            Sansa shook her head, still smiling. They had reached Winterfell, and Sansa paused by the front stoop. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Sansa told her.

            Margaery laughed. “That would be pretty much everything.”

            “Exactly. And I want to hear _everything_ at gym tomorrow.”

            They hugged goodbye, then Sansa watched Margaery head off down the road for a bit. If an old, rich bachelor like Oberyn Martell could make Margaery smile so truthfully, then he really was special.

            Inside, Sansa found her mother at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.

            “Mama? What’s wrong?” Sansa asked, dropping her backpack on the tile floor.

            Catelyn looked up. Red rimmed her eyes, and her pale cheeks were unusually flushed. “I’m fine, honey. It’s your sister.”

            “Arya? What’s wrong?”

            Catelyn sniffed, then pressed the tissue crumpled in her fist against her nose. “Nothing, I’m sure. I got a call from school saying she never turned up today. Not that that’s anything new,” Catelyn said, laughing bitterly.

            Sansa bit her lip as she sank into the seat beside her mother. She was used to lying for Arya and covering her wild sister’s tracks, but that was when Arya was actually smart about fooling around. Skipping school for a whole day? That was a new low. “I’m sure she’ll turn up by dinner,” Sansa said, glancing at the clock. 

            “I would go drive around town myself to look for her, but Bran has a doctor’s appointment in an hour and your father’s on that business trip…”

            Sansa covered her mother’s hand, wincing slightly when the snotty tissue touched her. “Let me go find her, mama. Take Rickon with you to the doctor’s while I walk into town. It’s not like I have any real homework, and I’ve got some ideas about where she might be.”

 

* * *

 

            Jaime lounged behind the wheel of his Mustang rumbling in the driveway. He gazed up at the sky, frowning. Dark clouds hung low in the afternoon sky, already fat with a summer storm. Groaning, Jaime put the car in park, slid out, and began pulling the hood down over his prized convertible. He hated being cooped up inside without the wind kissing his cheeks and grazing his long hair. But he hated the rain more.

            He cranked down the windows, though, before sliding out from the covered driveway. At least he’d get some fresh air until the grey sky began to drizzle. Jaime spun the wheel to the left and eased on the gas, pulling away from his childhood home with the satisfying crunch of gravel beneath the tires.

            Jaime was about to cross the bridge when he saw Sansa, and as he pulled up beside her, an uncomfortable feeling settled in his belly—this is where he had picked her up the other day, despite Joffrey’s protests. _I look like a stalker,_ he mused, eyeing her openly before she noticed him. _I suppose I am, damnit._ Sansa wore a knee-length pink skirt with a matching halter top that bared her freckled shoulders. She turned at the sound of his engine, and her hands immediately gripped her skirt when she saw him.

            “It’s gonna rain, sweetheart,” Jaime said, eyeing her through the open passenger-side window.

            She stiffened, and a pretty shade of pink touched her cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

            Jaime looked her up and down—unnecessarily, but he liked the way her blush deepened. “That’s a pretty dress. Shame to let the rain ruin it.”

            Sansa worried her lip. She looked side to side, maybe for passing cars to come to her rescue, but when the air was thick and silent save for the rumble of the engine, she approached his window, placed her hands on the door, and peered inside. “Are you offering me a ride?”

            “Depends on where you wanna go.”

            “Flea Bottom.”

            “The trailer park?”

            She nodded, and Jaime let out a whistle. “Sightseeing?”

            “No,” she said hotly. “I need to find my sister, Arya.”

            “And you think she’s in Flea Bottom?”

            “I know she is.”

            Jaime drummed the steering wheel and stared at the swirling sky outside the window, pretending to think on it and trying to hide his smirk. _Father will be pleased,_ he thought. _I don’t even have to try and she’s already starting to see me as someone who can help her. Who she can trust._ Jaime shoved away the guilt churning inside and reached over to push open her door. “Get in. I’ll take you to find her, but we’re making a pitstop first.”

            Sansa climbed inside, and as he drove, Jaime couldn’t help but glance at her. She played nervously with the hem of skirt and kept her gaze firmly out the window. His eyes slid down to the smooth skin of her thighs where she had absently pulled up her skirt.

            “I don’t do this, you know,” Sansa said.

            Jaime looked back to the road. “Do what?”

            “Get in cars with strange men. It’s just because of my stupid sister.”

            “Strange, huh?” Jaime mused.

            “Yeah. And dangerous.”

            He chuckled at that. “I’m a strange, dangerous man now, am I? Who told you that?”

            “My dad,” she said curtly. “And Margaery.”

            Jaime slowed the Mustang to a stop at a traffic light, and he looked over to Sansa to see watching him. When he caught her looking, she blushed furiously and stared pointedly up at the red light. “Ned Stark hates any man, woman, or kid with my last name,” he told her. “As for your pretty friend…she likes people to think she knows what she’s talkin’ about.”

            Sansa fell silent as they continued on towards the main part of town. Jaime pulled up to the dusty lot outside the town’s one and only gas station. The swirling sky had finally decided to drizzle, and with the engine cut off, only the steady patter of rain filled the car. Jaime pocketed the keys, and as he stepped out, Sansa began to pull at her own door handle.

            “You’re staying here,” he told her, locking the car before she could get the door open. Jaime walked around the front as Sansa glared daggers into his back.

            “How come?”

            “Because,” Jaime said, propping his elbows up inside her window and giving her a smirk. “That cashier in there ain’t gonna sell me my beers if I walk inside with a high school girl.” He patted the door and strode away towards the grimy glass door with an ‘open’ sign hanging crooked in the window.

            Once Jaime had picked up his six-pack of cold beer cans, he got behind the woman waiting for the cashier to pop back up from where he crouched behind the counter. When a man finally rose back up, Jaime’s breathing hitched—the cashier had shoulder-length silvery hair and pale lilac eyes. Even dressed up in a hat and polyester uniform, the young man was unmistakable. And he was the person Jaime was least looking forward to running into in this damned town. The son of the man Jaime had killed.

            Viserys Targaryen handed the customer a pack of cigarettes. As the woman passed him some cash, Jaime reached into his pocket, pleased when he drew out the sunglasses he’d left in there. Jaime slid them on, then approached.

            “This it?” Viserys droned as he took a look at the beer.

            “Yeah.” Jaime pulled a wad of cash from his other pocket and slid it across the counter.

            Viserys eyed the money with a bored expression, and Jaime prayed that he wouldn’t be asked for ID—clearly he was old enough to purchase, but still…a lot had changed in a decade. The cash register popped open, and Jaime breathed out a sigh of relief while Viserys counted out his change. When he handed Jaime back a few bills, those lilac eyes scanned Jaime’s face.

            “Do I know you?” Viserys asked.

            Jaime shrugged and stuffed the money back in his pocket. “Don’t think so.”

            Viserys frowned and tapped his lips with his forefinger. “You some…movie star or something? I think I saw you on TV. Or the news?”

            Jaime grabbed his beers, hoisting them under his arm. “Yep, that’s it,” Jaime said. He quickly turned and made for the door. He didn’t breathe out until he was safely back inside the Mustang.

            He dumped the beers by her feet and fumbled for the keys. Sansa shot him an annoyed look.“I rolled up the windows for you.”

            “What?”

            She gestured to the rain sliding down the glass.

             “Thanks,” he muttered as the engine purred to life. “Flea bottom, right?”

            As Jaime pulled out of the lot, he heard Sansa’s sneaker hit his beer cans with a metallic thud. “What’s with the cheap beer?”

            “Got thirsty.” A light, tinkering laugh answered him. Jaime glanced at her, smiling at her amused face. “What? I did.”

            “You’re telling me that the Lannisters don’t have a whole cellar stocked with the finest beer from all around the world?”

            “You don’t stick beer in a cellar, sweetheart,” Jaime replied. He turned down the road to Flea Bottom, grimacing when his tires hit the first of many pot holes. “Even some of us Lannisters have more brains than that.”

            She laughed again, and again Jaime smiled at the pretty sound. “And which type of Lannister are you, hmm? The smart type or the brainless type?”

            “This some kind of test?”

            “Just thought I’d get to know the strange, dangerous man who keeps givin’ me rides.”

            Jaime glanced at her, at her easy smile and the way her arm stretched up to hold the handle above the window. Her halter top had ridden up, and he couldn’t help but smirk at the sliver of creamy skin above her skirt. _Father warned me that these Westeros girls are dangerous_ , Jaime thought as they flew clumsily over a pothole. _I just thought it’d be the Tyrell girl causing all the trouble._ “I’m neither one of those,” Jaime said, looking back to the road. He didn’t want to answer more questions, so he switched on the radio and let Supertramp’s ‘Give A Little Bit’ flow out.

 

            By the time Sansa directed him to pull up outside a pale yellow and green striped trailer, some new Fleetwood Mac song was blasting from the radio, and he was more than happy to cut it off. He and Sansa stared up through the front window now blurry with rain. Somewhere, a baby wailed, and a dog yapped in reply.

            “You should stay here,” Sansa said, her voice quiet and tinged with uncertainty.

            “You sure about that?”

            She twisted to look at him, then she nodded. “Yeah.” That was all she said before stepping out into the rain and running up to the rickety door with a handmade ‘no solicitors’ sign nailed to the center.

            Jaime tapped out some song on his steering wheel. The storm had picked up in earnest now, sending thick sheets of bubbling water rolling down the glass. Even if he could see out, there were only slits of windows on the trailer, each one covered in ugly white blinds.

            Ten minutes passed before Jaime considered turning the car back on to give him something to listen to. In another five, Jaime was striding through the pounding rain to reach the trailer door. He found it unlocked, and as he edged it open, shouts began to emerge from within.

            “Arya, come on!” he heard Sansa shout. “Tell your dumb boyfriend to move!”

            “Gendry, tell my dumb sister to get the fuck out!” a girl yelled back. 

            As he stepped inside the dark, dingy place that was some strange combination of a kitchen and living room, he saw Sansa standing with her hands on her hips in front of a boy, Gendry he assumed. Gendry guarded an closed door to some back room where the girl’s voice had come from. “What’s going on in here?” Jaime said carefully. He stepped on an old, greasy pizza box. Both Sansa and Gendry started at the sound.

            “I told you to stay in the car,” she snapped, her wet hair swinging around her shoulders as she turned to glare at him.

            “That was fifteen minutes ago,” Jaime retorted. He stepped up beside her, smirked, and stuck a hand out to Gendry. He was a well-built kid, maybe Sansa’s age, with a dark crew cut and clothes clearly bought from the town’s only thrift store. “Jaime.”

            Gendry eyed Jaime’s hand warily. “Gendry.”

            “And who are you, Gendry?”

            The boy straightened, puffing out his chest. “This is my house.”

            _House…_ Jaime considered making a flippant comment, then decided against it considering the already pissed-off girl to his right. “Well Gendry, my friend here thinks you’re hiding her sister in your…house.”

            “He _is_ ,” Sansa growled.

            “So?” Gendry asked, eyeing Jaime up and down. “What are you gonna do about it?”

            Jaime let out an exaggerated sigh, then he pretended to rake a hand through his dripping hair in thought. “Well…either you could step aside and let Arya come out, or you can find out what happens when you don’t. Your choice.”

            “Don’t listen to them, Gendry!” Arya’s muffled voice called out. “And tell Sansa and her boyfriend to fuck the fuck off!”

            Sansa’s glare had faded into a nervous frown. Her hand closed around Jaime’s arm, and she pulled him back into the living room. “They’re just being dumb kids,” Sansa whispered, turning so her back was to Gendry while Jaime stood close in front of her. “You can’t hurt him.” She looked down at her fingers still pressed into his arm. She let go.

            “Do you want your sister home before your mother throws a fit?” Sansa met his eyes as she bit her lip, then she nodded. “Then get out of the way.”

            Jaime strode towards the boy—Gendry backed up into the door, but Jaime’s hand was on his shoulder in an instant. He yanked the boy forward, pulled his arm across his back, and shoved him up against the wall.

            “Hey!” Gendry said, squirming. Jaime smirked and looked back at Sansa.

            “Your sister’s all yours.”

            Sansa brushed past him with a curt expression, then stormed into the room. After a minute of protesting, she emerged with a short, dark-haired girl in tow.

            “Good choice,” Jaime told Gendry. He gave him a pat on the shoulder and released him. Jaime followed the girls to the front door, shooting the boy one last smirk before slamming the door shut behind him.

 

            Not even another round of Fleetwood Mac could drown out the sisters’ bickering on the drive home. He tried to follow their fight at first, but when it began bouncing rapidly between Arya’s trailer park boyfriend and Sansa’s goody-two-shoes attitude, he twisted the dial and gritted his teeth through the music.

            The storm had passed by the time Jaime pulled up outside Casterly Rock, and only the sticky, wet heat of summer remained. The trees had grown dark from the drink, and the shining leaves seemed to stretch out towards the road, searching for a lonely person to grab onto and drag back into the forest’s depths.

            As soon as Jaime put the car in park, Arya leapt out and marched across the street. Sansa sighed as she watched her go. “You must think I’m crazy for caring so much,” she said quietly.

            “You’re not.” Jaime ran his tongue over his teeth, then he dragged his gaze away from the window to meet Sansa’s eyes. “It’s our siblings that make us crazy. Not the other way around.”

            Sansa brushed back a piece of hair sticking to her cheek, sliding it back behind her ear. Jaime’s fingers twitched, and a sudden urge to do the motion himself washed over him. He kept his to himself—it was too soon, too fast, to even imagine her welcoming his touch. _Start slow_. Those had been his father’s words. _Don’t scare her away._

            “Thank you,” she said, her sky-blue eyes searching his face. “You didn’t have to help. You didn’t even have to give me a ride.”

            “My pleasure,” Jaime answered. “Maybe you can tell your pretty friend I’m that gentleman she hoped I’d be.”

            Sansa shook her head, smiling. “I think Margaery would be happier if I told her you think she’s pretty,” she said, breathing out a sigh and staring down at her wrinkled skirt. “She’s the kinda girl who likes that.”

            “And what kinda girl are you?”

            Her eyes snapped back up, just briefly, before she reached for the door handle. “I better go,” she said quickly, pushing it open and swinging her legs out the side.

            “Hold on,” Jaime said, and she paused in the open door. He reached down to grab the case of beers and wiggled one free. “Take it,” he told her, holding it out.

            Sansa’s fingers closed around the can. “Why?”

            “In case you get thirsty.”

            Sansa laughed, and Jaime grinned, pleased to hear that pretty laugh again. “How kind of you.”

            “Just don’t stick it in your cellar,” he added as she turned the can over in her hands. “See you around, sweetheart.”

            Her eyes raised to meet his, and something flickered there, heavy and dark. It wasn’t from the humidity. She shut the car door, then turned back towards her house. Jaime watched her skirt swing around her hips until she disappeared inside, the beer he’d gifted her swinging loosely in the hand by her side.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think of our little Jaime/Sansa interactions? I for sure am excited to write more! I'm going to be starting work soon, so I'm writing like crazy to get ahead a bit. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think so far :)


	4. Cigarettes, Secrets, and Lies

****

**Wednesday June 8, 1977**

            A cloudless sky bore down upon the track, bestowing Sansa, Margaery, and the whole rest of the gym class a slick coating of sweat. Tormund was forcing them to run today, though Sansa and Margaery were getting away just fine with a light jog and only the occasional bark reminding them to keep moving, ladies.

            Margaery had just finished telling Sansa about her date in ragged bursts. Apparently the Spanish restaurant Oberyn took her to had been just _divine_ —even Westeros didn’t have a place as nice. Margaery smirked when Sansa begged her for the juicy details.

            “We may have kissed,” Margaery told her as they rounded a corner. Tennis shoes slapped the pavement as a group of boys sprinted past. “We may have kissed many times…outside the restaurant, inside the restaurant, in his car…”

            “In his car!”

            “Yes, darling. I know—how romantic.” Margaery shook her head, grinning. “It’s not easy, you know, kissing a man in a tiny sports car. Things can get complicated.”

            Sansa wondered if her friend meant she had gone farther than just kissing. “Complicated?”

            “Well Oberyn’s not a small man, Sansa. You have to move around a lot before you find a position that’s…comfortable.”

            Sansa skidded to a halt, and Margaery stopped to look back at her. “Did you two…”

            Margaery rolled her eyes, grabbed Sansa’s arm, and pulled her back into a jog. “Darling, I’m a virgin!” Margaery sang in her southern twang. Asha and Wylla passed by, shooting them a curious stare. They slowed down to a brisk walk, and Margaery leaned in towards Sansa’s ear. “Of course I’m a virgin. You’ll be the first to know when I’m not, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t do other things.”

            “Like what?”

            “Well…” Margaery twisted her hair into a low bun. Sansa handed her the scrunchie off her wrist. “Let’s just say that it’s not easy giving a blow job in a sports car.” Sansa blushed furiously, but she knew that’s not all Margaery had done with Oberyn—Margaery had been giving the boys she dated blow jobs since freshman year.

            They came to a stop by one of the metal benches, and after looking around to see if Tormund was watching, they plopped gratefully down. “He also did this thing,” Margaery began, looking off at the field with a sly smile. “With his mouth.” She gestured between her thighs.

            “Was it nice?”

            Margaery’s head fell back in laughter, and she gave Sansa a pat on the shoulder. “Yes, Sansa. It was very nice.”

            Sansa pressed her lips together at the feeling Margaery was laughing _at_ her for not knowing everything about kissing and sex and men. “I hung out with Jaime last night,” Sansa said suddenly.

            The impish look dropped from her friend’s face, replaced by one of concern. “What?”

            “Yeah,” Sansa answered proudly. “We went for a drive in town. It was…nice.”

            Worry creased Margaery’s brow. “Sansa, you have to be careful around that man. Don’t you remember what Willas said? How your father reacted to us just talkin’ to him?”

            “I can handle myself, Margaery,” Sansa told her. She gave a reassuring smile. “It was just a drive.” Margaery didn’t need to know _why_ they went on a drive together, that it was to retrieve her stupid sister. That Sansa now had a shiny can of beer hidden between cans of hair spray and sunscreen on her vanity.

            “But why would he want to take a drive with you? Some high school kid?”

            “You’re one to talk,” Sansa snapped. She jumped to her feet and glared down at Margaery. “Oberyn’s what, like forty? At least no one gossips about why Jaime’s not married yet at his age.”

            “That’s because no one knows who Jaime _is_ ,” said Margaery dryly. “He was in prison for ten years, for God’s sake.”

            Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot, and she curled her fingers into her palms. “You’re just jealous that a guy’s more interested in me than you.”

            Margaery’s mouth popped open,. “What do you think’s gonna happen, Sansa? That Jaime’s going to show up at the debutante ball and ask for your hand in marriage? That he’s going to whisk you away on dates and give you your first kiss?” Sansa mashed her teeth together—that _was_ what Sansa had been thinking as she lay awake at night. That this handsome, dangerous stranger would maybe, maybe want to fall in love with her. Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but Margaery cut her off with a sharp snap. “If Jaime Lannister is even interested, darling, it’s because he wants to fuck you. Not because he wants to love you.”

            Tears pricked in Sansa’s eyes. She pushed away the sweaty hair clinging to her cheeks. “How would you know?”

            Margaery sighed and looked away. “Because I’ve known enough men who want just that. They all want to fuck us. But they don’t want to marry us.”

            “What about Oberyn?”

            Margaery’s gaze flicked back over. Sansa could see the tears glinting in her friend’s wide eyes. “I don’t know what he wants yet. But I don’t want you to make the same mistakes as me.”

            Sansa pursed her lips. Her fingers unfurled. Margaery always thought she was the only girl in the world who got to do whatever she wanted. The rest of them? They’d sit at home twirling their thumbs until a man showed up to tell them exactly what to do, how to act, who to be. They’d become pretty housewives like all their mothers and their mothers before that. Sansa always thought that’d be her future, but now she wasn’t so sure. Jaime was different. Maybe, just maybe, he could give _her_ something different.

            Except he didn’t give a damn about her. Margaery made that clear enough. If he wanted anything, it was to fuck her.

            “I need to get some water,” Sansa mumbled. She dragged the heel of her hand across her cheeks.

            I’ll come with you.”

            “No.”

            Margaery faltered.

            Sansa breathed out a shaky sigh. “Just…just leave me alone for a bit, yeah?”

            A pained look crossed Margaery’s face, then she nodded and sat back down. Sansa jogged back to the gymnasium, flying past the metal doors and ignoring Tormund and Ms. Tarth asking her where the hell she was going. Sansa ran into the hallway, past a line of blurring red lockers, and into a bathroom. Smoke wafted up from one of the stalls, but Sansa ignored whoever was there. She dropped to her knees in front of a toilet as the door banged behind her. She retched, but nothing came out. Only tears slid into the bowl, and Sansa cursed herself under her breath. She acting so stupid, freaking out over a fight with Margaery. Stupid like a little kid.

            “Hey, you ok?”

            Sansa whirled around to see Dany in the open stall door. A cigarette dangled from her fingers. “I’m fine,” Sansa muttered, wiping her mouth. She used the toilet to push herself to her feet. “I’m fine,” she said again, more firmly.

            Dany held out her cigarette.

            Sansa eyed it. “No. But thanks.”

            The silver haired girl shrugged, then stubbed it out on the plastic door. “They help me calm down.”

            “I don’t need to calm down,” Sansa blurted out. Dany raised her eyebrows. “I’m fine.”

            “So you said,” Dany said lightly. She turned and hoisted herself up to sit on one of the porcelain sinks. Bruised knees stuck out from where her plaid skirt rode up. Sansa tried not to stare.

            “I’m Dany.”

            “I know.”

            “And you’re Sansa. The Stark girl.”

            Sansa nodded—it was useless pretending they didn’t know who each other was, even if they’d hardly spoken until this day. “So…what are you doing in here, Dany? Besides, you know…smoking.”

            A smile broke over Dany’s delicate features. “Skipping history class. I don’t usually since my friend Gendry’s in there, but he’s out sick. Hence the skipping.”

            Sansa frowned. “You know Gendry?” she asked, before realizing how stupid she sounded—everyone knew who the trailer park kids were.

            “He’s a good guy, you know,” Dany said. “He’s good to your sister.”

            Sansa breathed out a laugh. “If he were good for her, he wouldn’t make her skip a whole day of school.”

            “I said good _to_ her, not for her.”

            “Aren’t those the same thing?” Dany laughed as she picked at a long, sliver curl. When her arm bent up, a plum-colored bruise peeked out from the soft underside. Sansa wondered if she played sports—she and Margaery had never been to any of the school’s games, so she wouldn’t know.  

            “If you’re lookin’ for a man that’s good to you and for you, you’ll be lookin’ for a long time. Trust me, Sansa. What matters is that they treat you right. Everything else?” She blew out a breath. “Fuck it.”

            The bell rang, and Dany jumped off the sink with a groan. “And fuck school. I’m heading home.” Dany moved towards the door, but she stopped with her hand on the knob. “Want to come?”

            “Oh, uh, no thank you,” Sansa said. “But it was nice talking to you.”

            Dany smiled. “Yeah. It really was. See you around, Stark girl.”

            _See you around_. The door swung closed, and Sansa smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait to tell Margaery about her convo with one of the ‘Trailer Park Targaryeans’—but that would involve ending their fight and probably apologizing too.

            _She can come up to me_ , Sansa decided as she left the bathroom to head to bio class. _I’m sick of always crawling back to her, and it ain’t happening this time_.

            Sansa smirked as she strode down the hallway. Even in her head, it felt delightfully sinful to say the word _ain’t_.

 

* * *

 

**Saturday June 11, 1977**

Jaime was lounging on a red and gold brocade chaise when his ears pricked up at a sound so familiar yet foreign. Keys clinked inside the little dish perched by the front door, then a pair of boots dragged against the horsehair bristles of the welcome mat. It was the sound of his father Tywin Lannister coming home—a sound Jaime had not heard in ten years.

            Jaime had straightened up and set aside his book—some ghastly science fiction tomb of Tyrion’s—by the time his father emerged in the arched doorway to the parlor. “Father,” Jaime said, before promptly rising to his feet. He’d seen Tywin for the first time in that long decade only a month earlier. Back when Jaime wore orange and his father a disdainful look of disappointment. It was across a prison visitor table that Jaime received his father’s assignment. Tywin had been abroad on business ever since Jaime returned home, and he hadn’t seen or heard the man since. His father was not one to pick up the phone. Tywin Lannister called you, not the other way around.

            “Jaime.” Tywin stepped into the middle of the parlor. He swept his gaze around the extravagant room before finally meeting his son’s eyes. “You need a haircut.”

            Jaime pressed his lips together, biting back a smirk or a laugh or something his father would find equally as dissatisfactory. “I’ll get right on that,” Jaime answered, smoothing a hand over his neck and the hair that brushed against it. He actually liked what prison had done to his golden locks, liked the way he looked now. Like the rouge everyone thought he was. The men in in the Western movies he’d loved as a boy.

            Tywin nodded curtly, then he poured himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter by the high, arching window. Jaime knew his cold eyes were pointed directly into the windows of Winterfell. “I received word that invitations to Baelish’s debutante ball went out on Monday.”

            “I know,” Jaime said. “We’re all invited, of course. Even Tyrion—Baelish thinks he actually has a chance at finding a nice girl.” Jaime smirked, but only because his father’s back was to him. They all knew that Baelish only invited Tyrion because he was another bachelor with money, not for his dwarf height, looks, or wit. The debutante ball was a tradition of sweeping ball gowns and high school grad girls, dancing and champagne. But everyone knew it was just a way for every man with some money to have a look at the newest crop of Westeros’s eligible women and maybe find himself a pretty young bride.

            “The ball’s in little more than a month, Jaime. How are things going with your little debutante?”

            Jaime’s eyes darkened, and he glanced wistfully at his father’s favorite whiskey—neither Jaime nor Cersei never dared to pour themselves a glass, even when their father was way away for week on end. “Fine.”

            Tywin turned away from the window. “Fine? You need to do better than fine, Jaime. You have a month to gain her trust, or our work is for nothing.”

            Jaime’s lips twisted, and he choked down his annoyance. “I’ve spent an hour with the Stark girl, but she is…” _Beautiful, headstrong, too innocent for what my family wants from her._ “Reluctant to trust me.”

            “You’re going to have to do better,” Tywin said, tapping his finger on the rim of his glass. He raised the amber liquid to his lips and swallowed.

            “How?” Jaime spit out. “Everyone keeps telling Sansa that I’m dangerous, to stay away. She’s Winterfell’s crowning jewel, and she tries to live up to that standard of perfection.”

            “Then you must use her opinion of you to your advantage. If she thinks you’re dangerous, make it thrilling. Make yourself someone she can’t resist.” Tywin drained his glass, then turned back to the window. “Don’t disappoint me again, Jaime. There won’t be a third chance.”

            Jaime glared at the back of his father’s head, then he turned abruptly on his heel and stormed off towards the front door. As it slammed shut behind him, Jaime dug into his pocket and pulled out his wrinkled carton of smokes.

            “Don’t disappoint me again,” Jaime mocked under his breath. He fumbled with the box. Did Tywin even know how impossible this plan was? How a girl like Sansa Stark would never trust him? Jaime wasn’t even the one Sansa was going to end up with if the plan worked—that was all Joffrey’s honor.

            Jaime flipped open the lid. “Fuck,” he cursed. The box was empty. Jaime flung the carton to the side then watched it bounce down the front stoop. When Jaime glanced down at his fingers, he watched them tremble. God, he really did need a cigarette, and fast. He had picked up smoking during the last year of his prison sentence. That was when Cersei had stopped visiting. When the rage bubbled up inside him and only the sweet wash of tobacco could bring him back down.

            He glanced over to his Mustang parked in the driveway, then breathed out a sigh of relief. In prison, you had to work for a pack of smokes. In Westeros, you only had to drive to the shitty gas station a few miles away.

 

            A long line trailed from the cash register, and luckily for Jaime, there was no silver hair in sight. While he waited for the line to dwindle, Jaime stepped over to the cold drinks, and he eyed them wantonly. There was nothing like a slippery can of beer on a sticky summer afternoon, or a tingling sip of cola down your throat during a dry spell that kicked up clouds of dust from the winding gravel roads. But he’d forgotten his wallet, and only a lonely few bills lay crumpled in his pocket. Just enough for his cigarettes.

            Jaime sighed and wandered down an aisle lined with shiny packages of chips, then he froze when his eyes landed on a cascade of feathered light-brown hair. Margaery was fingering a pack of pretzels when her eyes bounced over to him. Jaime quickly turned and walked back over to the drinks. Besides Viserys, the Tyrell girl was the last person he wanted to see when his blood was up. He knew one wrong word from her full lips and he’d snap.

            “I thought I saw you.”

            Jaime glanced away from the glass door of drinks to see Margaery smiling up a him, dimples darting her cheeks. “Hi,” he said lamely, before setting his jaw and composing himself. “What brings a girl like you all the way down here?” he drawled, looking around. “All alone?”

            “Why?” she asked, brushing aside his question with her air of flirty confidence. “Do you like running into girls you shouldn’t be?”

            He let his eyes roam up and down her short jumpsuit, but when he met her eyes again, he saw that his stare had only deepened her smirk. “Just here for some smokes.”

            Margaery raised her brows, playing along. “You gonna offer me one this time?”

            “And ruin that mouth with a cigarette? I don’t think so.”

            “Some boys like the way that looks,” she said lightly.

            Jaime chuckled—she really was something, wasn’t she? Too smart for her own good, smart enough to know what effect she could have on men. Jaime saw through her flirty façade. Deep down, she was just a scared little rich girl pretending to be a woman. He saw it in the flicker of her eyes over his looming frame, the twitch in her smile when he spoke. “I’m no boy, sweetheart,” he said, stepping closer.

            She moved just slightly away. “I know,” she said, her voice dropping lower, her smile fading from her lips. “Which is why you’re gonna stay far away from her. She doesn’t need a man like you.”

            Jaime smirked. “Who?”

            “Don’t play dumb, Jaime. If you keep this up, you’re going to hurt her, and I’m going to have to pick up the pieces.”

            Guilt pricked Jaime’s stomach. “Why do you think I’m gonna hurt her?”

            “Because she thinks you’re cute,” Margaery answered, and Jaime’s brows raised in surprise. “At least, she thinks she does. But you’re not good for her. You’ll _never_ be good for her.”

            Jaime set his jaw in a hard line. His eyes dropped to the speckled tile floor, to the sticky soda stain right by Margaery’s foot. “What are you, eighteen?” he bit back, harsher than he probably should. An old man with a basketful of chips glanced their way before shuffling on. “You don’t know a thing, sweetheart.”

            “I know what happens when a young girl falls for an older guy,” Margaery said softly. “It can be thrilling at first, to have some man’s attention pointed only at you. But you can’t tell anyone. Can’t go out to the soda shop in town, can’t ride in his car without constantly worrying who’s lookin’, who’s talkin’, who’s going to tell your parents or the cops. Eventually, the secret gets to be too much. It’ll destroy her.” Margaery swept over with her cold, wide eyes, then she turned and staked off towards the door.

            Jaime followed her, and as the bell tinged above his head, he saw the girl open the door of a sport’s car. The dark haired, dark eyed man behind the wheel pulled her in for a kiss.

            As the wheels spun and a plume of dark smoke floated up into the air, Jaime realized that Margaery knew exactly what she was talking about. Margaery was living the life she wanted Sansa to have no part of, and deep down, Jaime agreed with the Tyrell girl. But what could he do to stop it?

            Jaime stepped back into the shop, and in a daze, he handed the cashier a wad of bills in exchange for a pack of cigarettes. Back in his car with the windows rolled down, Jaime took off back to the neighborhood. He smoked the whole drive home.

 

* * *

 

            “Sansa, it’s for you!” Bran called up the stairs.

            Sansa swung her legs off her bed. She’d been attempting to complete an English project, but it wasn’t going anywhere. “Coming!” she shouted back.

            Bran sat by the kitchen telephone, and he stuck it out to her when she padded up in her socks. “It’s Margaery,” he told her. Sansa eyed the phone warily. “She said it’s really, really important, and that you have to pick up even if you’re still mad.”

            Three days had passed since their fight during gym class—three horrible, boring days where Sansa had to find other people to eat lunch with, other kids to talk to during class. This afternoon, Sansa had walked over to High Garden, but when she had reached the back garden and saw Olenna bent over a patch of summer squash, she was tartly informed that Margaery was off with friends. As if Margaery had any other friends.

            “Fine,” Sansa muttered, taking the phone from Bran. He watched her as she pressed the receiver to her ear. “Scram,” she hissed, kicking the wheel of his wheelchair. Bran held up two apologetic hands and rolled back over to his first-floor bedroom.

            “Sansa?” Margaery’s voice crackled through the phone, but even with the static, Sansa could hear her nerves.

            “Yeah, I’m here,” Sansa answered. She walked over to sit at the table, the curled cord stretching out across the room.

            “I just…I thought you should know that I ran into Jaime today in town.” Margaery sighed when Sansa didn’t answer. “He didn’t do anything, we just talked…I just want you to be careful around him, ok? And it’s not because I’m jealous or upset. I love you, Sansa. I want you to be safe.”

            A smile pulled at Sansa’s lips. “I’ll try to stay away from Jaime,” she insisted, ignoring the gnawing feeling in her tummy reminding her it was probably a lie—there was just something about him that intrigued her, even scared her. She wanted to know more, wanted to watch the way he looked at her like she was fascinating. Sansa had never felt fascinating in her life before Jaime Lannister showed up across the street. It wasn’t a feeling she was going to give up so easily, not until someone proved that Jaime was the dangerous man everyone claimed him to be.

            “I love you too,” Sansa answered after a pause.. “I…I’m sorry for getting mad the other day. This week has really sucked without you.”

            “I know! It’s been ghastly, hasn’t it? Pretending we can’t see each other across the cafeteria.”

            Sansa nodded. “Besties again?”

            Margaery laughed. “Forever.”

            Sansa grinned, and she twisted the cord between her fingers. “Hey, I was thinking about my birthday party next Saturday—”

            “Oh my God, I completely forgot! There’s just been so much going on with the ball and school…”

            “Yeah, well, I was hoping to borrow a top to wear? Something to go with those shorts you gave me?”

            “Darling, you can’t borrow something! You only turn eighteen once. We _have_ to go shopping.”

            Sansa worried her lip. “I dunno, mama might not want to pay—”

            “I’m taking you shopping, and that’s final,” Margaery said, cutting her off. “I’ll swing by tomorrow around one, then we can walk into town. It’s going to be fun, darling, just you wait.”

            Sansa giggled, relenting. “Ok, ok. See you tomorrow.”

            She hung up and put the receiver back on the wall, still smiling to herself. If Margaery was going shopping with her, then she’d probably come home with a top so scandalous she’d have to sneak it into her room.

            As Sansa began to climb back up the stairs, something caught the corner of her eye. She turned with one foot on the first step. Bran sat there, watching her curiously.

            “Were you listening?” Sansa demanded. “Have you been sitting here this whole time?”

            “You weren’t convincing, you know,” Bran said lightly.

            “What?”

            “You weren’t convincing Margaery. She knows you won’t stay away from Jaime Lannister.”

            Sansa stepped down. “That’s not true—I’m never speaking to that awful man again,” she snapped. “You don’t know anything about it.”

            Her brother shrugged. “Maybe. But I know you.” Bran gripped his wheels. “And I know when you’re lying.” He rolled back off into his room.

            Sansa watched the door close with her lips slightly parted, her brows pulled together with confusion and a painful twinge of guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there was no Sansa/Jaime stuff this week, but I really hoped you still enjoyed his little encounter with Margaery. I absolutely adore their dynamic since they're both the type to use that charismatic, flirty facade even with each other. And I hope you liked Dany--I'm going to be doing something a little different with her character than I usually do. Also I'd love to know if you want more from Jaime's sections or if you like have Sansa be more of the ~main~ POV character .
> 
> Thnaks for reading!


	5. Her Knight in Shining Armor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for some non-con in this chapter in one of the birthday party scenes

****

**Saturday June 18, 1977**

When the sun streaming in through the window woke Sansa up that morning, she didn’t feel any different. She didn’t feel any more of a woman, any less of a girl. But the calendar pinned to her wall told her it was her eighteenth birthday on the eighteenth of June. She was technically an adult, whether she felt like it or not.

            After a late breakfast with the family—her father was finally back from his business trip, which had her secretly pleased—and a drive into town to pick out a new book, Sansa found herself sitting on her bedroom floor with Margaery picking through her closet. The party wasn’t for another three hours, but she didn’t have anything better to do than hang around with her friend trying on clothes and getting dressed for the night.

            “Come on, you have to try it on for me! I never got to see,” Margaery pouted while she held up a hanger. Some kind of black, woven material made up the tight bodice that left her midsection bare, and cords crisscrossed the low neckline. With only capped sleeves, the top would leave her arms bare. When Sansa had found it in the store, she tried it on in the safety of her dressing room, and even Margaery had not seen her wear it yet. It was a grown-up top, a woman’s top, and butterflies tickled her belly at the thought of putting it on for others to see.

            “I _will_ ,” Sansa told her. “As soon as my parents leave we can get dressed.”

            Margaery sighed and hung the shirt back up. For now, her friend was clad in simple jeans and a collared tank top, but Sansa knew there was something short and slinky in the backpack she’d brought over. “Joffrey’s going to melt when he sees you,” she said, quite matter-of-factly.

            Sansa hummed her agreement, but in truth Joffrey had hardly crossed her mind since she invited him to the party. They’d talked a few times during gym class , but he hadn’t asked her out again. _Maybe he’s waiting for tonight_ , Sansa thought, staring at the top in her closet. She smiled, trying to convince herself that she was excited to see him, to finally have her first kiss with the golden-haired jock. He was handsome, and the right age. But he wasn’t…

            “Is Jaime coming?”

            Sansa’s eyes flew up to her friend now perched at the vanity. “What? Why would Jaime come?”

            “I’m only joking,” Margaery replied as she examined her already perfectly-teased hair.

            “Well he’s not. My parents wouldn’t let him come even if I wanted him here.”

            “Do you want him here?”

            Sansa’s eyes dropped to the carpet. She picked at a loose piece of fuzz. “No,” she said quietly. “I told you I’d stay away, didn’t I?”

            Margaery pursed her lips but said nothing more as she played with her hair.

            There was a knock on her door, then it swung open to reveal her parents peering in from the threshold. “Honey, we’re heading out now,” Catelyn said, her gaze sweeping the room as if searching for some hint of hidden debauchery.

            “Have a good time.” Her parents were taking Arya and the boys to some theme park for the weekend to let her have her birthday party without adult supervision. She still didn’t know quite how she managed it, but then again, Sansa had spent eighteen years acting like the perfect daughter. Her mom and dad trusted her, and for one night, they’d be testing that trust.

            “Sansa.” She met her father’s eyes—he wore a grim expression, as usual. “Remember why we’re letting you have this party, ok? We trust you to be safe. You too, Margaery.”

            Margaery nodded sagely. “Of course, Mr. Stark. It’s just going to be a little get together with the girls. We wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

            Her parents looked at each other, gave their last goodbyes, then descended down the stairs and out the door with Arya, Bran, and Rickon in tow. Margaery and Sansa held perfectly still until the lock on the front door clicked, then they both erupted in a breathless fit of giggles.

            “We wouldn’t _dream_ of doing anything else!” Sansa exclaimed. She grabbed a pillow off the floor and wacked Margaery in the arm.

            “Hey! I was quite convincing, thank you very much,” Margaery said. She pushed herself off the floor and pulled Sansa’s new top and the cutoff shorts from the depths of her closet. “Now get dressed, darling. I want to see you in this—and you’re going to let me do your makeup and hair.”

            “But—” Sansa was promptly cut off when Margaery tossed the outfit at her face. Laughing, Sansa peeled off the clothes.

            “No buts,” Margaery said, her hands on her hips. “You’re going to look like a real woman tonight.”

 

* * *

 

            Jaime was striding down one of the upstairs hallways on his way to the attic when he noticed Joffrey’s door was open. He didn’t spend much time in this wing of the house, but an inclination to find some of his mother’s old records sent him straight past Joffrey’s door. Usually, Jaime would have walked whistling on by, but the sight of his ‘nephew’ chugging one of Jaime’s cheap beers caught his eye.

            He leaned up against the doorway and peered in. Joffrey rummaged through his dresser. Two other cans already littered the polished wood. Jaime cleared his throat, and Joffrey spun around.

            “Uncle,” Joffrey sneered. “What brings you up here?”

            “Sentiment.” Joffrey frowned, so Jaime added lightly, “I was looking for something in the attic. It’s not important.” His eyes drifted over to the beer cans. “You’re a little young to be drinking, don’t you think?”

            Joffrey rolled his eyes and turned back to his dresser. “As if you never drank underage.” He began pulling out dress shirts, holding up an orange one, a yellow, a blue. Each one Joffrey tossed to the floor in a growing heap. 

            “I did, and I also ended up in a state prison for a decade.”

            Joffrey snorted. “Drinking doesn’t make you dumb,” he said pointedly. A green striped number drifted onto the carpet, then Joffrey glanced over his shoulder. “You were just born like that. Dumb enough to get caught helping a man kill himself.”

            Jaime ground his teeth—he would not snap at the little jerk. Jaime could be the bigger man than his scrawny, hateful bastard son. He attempted a calming breath. “What are you getting dressed up for?”

            “It’s the Stark bitch’s party,” Joffrey answered in a bored tone. “Over at Winterfell.”

            Jaime stiffened. “You better behave yourself, then. I doubt the girl will take well to being called the Stark bitch on her birthday.”

            Joffrey rounded on him, his eyes flashing. “Do you think I’m stupid?

            “I think you find it amusing to be cruel to her. Don’t forget your grandfather’s plan—you’re here to woo her, to make her think you care. If you lose control now, she’ll never think you want to marry her.”

            Joffrey’s lips stretched into a smirk. “It seems like you should be the one marrying the bitch.”

            _If Joffrey calls her that one more time…_ Jaime gripped the wooden doorframe. He kept his expression cool, unaffected. “Well, we all have roles to play. Yours is to become her knight in shining armor. Do _try_ not to act like a cunt tonight.”

            Jaime bristled off back down the hallway, the attic and his mother’s records forgotten.

 

* * *

 

            “Do you think it’s going well? Please tell me you think it’s going well.”

            Margaery looked up from the ice cooler she was refilling with the beers she’d snuck over from Highgarden. They stood alone at the kitchen counter, Margaery getting more drinks, Sansa getting more snacks. Muffled voices and music floated in from the living room, and the extra fans Sansa had placed around the house whirled happily along.

            “Of course it’s going well,” Margaery said before setting the last of the beers in the cooler. “Everyone who’s anyone is here, I’ve got the drinks, you look super-hot…” Margaery chuckled, and Sansa instinctively pulled up her low-cut top. “And Joffrey’s here. Everything’s perfect, darling.”

            Sansa nodded and tried to smile, but she was just so nervous. Between the drinking and her parents trusting them in the house and Joffrey here…before, Sansa hadn’t been so sure if she still liked Joffrey. But when he had showed up on her porch and looked her up and down, a grin spread over his handsome face, the butterflies returned. They’d talked a couple times during the party, but she kept getting pulled away by Margaery or Asha or Myrcella. “I think we might kiss tonight,” Sansa whispered.

            “No way.”

            “Yeah. Way. But I don’t know how—I mean, I doubt he’d want to kiss me in front of everyone.”

            Her friend’s eyes glinted, and an impish look crossed her face. “I know just the thing.” She hoisted the ice cooler on her hip, then grabbed Sansa’s hand.

            Sansa allowed Margaery to drag her back into the living room, and once they’d put the snacks and drinks on the coffee table they’d shoved up against the wall, Margaery clapped her hands. After a moment, the room fell quiet save for the low crooning of her mom’s Elvis record spinning in the corner.

            “If everyone could grab their drinks and form a circle on the ground, we’ll play a little game.”

            The partygoers murmured excitedly as they followed Margaery’s orders. Sansa plopped down between Meera and Margaery. Joffrey sat across the circle, and she blushed when he caught her eye.

            “Dude, this isn’t going to be some lame dare game, is it?” Asha asked. Her boyfriend Tris kept trying to reach for her hand, but every time he got close, she inched hers further away.

            “No,” Margaery answered slyly. “Has everyone heard of seven minutes in heaven?” Sansa felt her face burn hot, and she kept her eyes pointedly on the carpet. Myrcella shook her head, but everyone else had. Margaery quickly went over the rules, then pointed towards the kitchen. “There’s a walk-in pantry back there—we’ll use that instead of a closet. Are ya’ll ready to get started?”

            They took turns picking the couples, but everyone always seemed to check with Margaery before announcing the next pair. First went Myrcella and Trystane, who remerged with their cheeks scarlet. Next came the predictable pairs, Asha and Tris, Wylla and Walder. Everyone whistled when Asha and Meera went off, and Myrcella nearly fainted when she was chosen for a second round with Jojen.

            “Birthday girl, I think it’s _your_ turn,” Margaery said as she sat down from her round with Walder. “Who do we think Sansa should spend her seven minutes in heaven with?”

            A pause swept over the group, then Meera sat up on her knees and looked across the circle. “Joffrey hasn’t been yet,” she told the room.

            Her cheeks couldn’t have been hotter, and if Sansa had dared to look down, she would have been scarlet all the way down the front of her top. “Sure,” she managed to get out.

            Joffrey gave her a smile. “Let’s go, birthday girl.”

            He took her by the hand—his palm was sweaty, but hers probably was too—and led her to the pantry. She followed him inside, then watched as Joffrey shut the door and pulled the string to the only lightbulb. In the sudden darkness with him, her stomach fluttered uncomfortably, and her breathing hitched in her chest. She could feel Joffrey’s eyes on her through the blackness, but he said nothing. After an awkward few seconds, she said, “So…we should talk, right?”

            “Talk?”

            She breathed out a nervous laugh. “I hardly think everyone that’s been in here has been doing _stuff_. Not that I wouldn’t, of course. Or that I haven’t.” Sansa clamped her mouth shut before she could ramble more and completely embarrass herself.

            Footsteps shuffled towards her, then Sansa felt Joffrey’s breath wash over her skin. “Stop talking,” he muttered. Another shuffle, then his hand was on her neck. Sansa flinched at the sudden contact, but held herself still, waiting for his lips to meet hers.

            But they didn’t—Joffrey simply held her, his breathing labored.

            “Joffrey?”

            His grip tightened, then she felt his other hand slide up against her stomach. “I said stop talking.”

            _It’s ok. This is what you wanted._ His fingers found the hem of her shirt, then they slipped underneath. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, and she stepped back slightly. Joffrey moved with her, and he groaned as his hand slid all the way up to cup one of her breasts above her bra.

            “Joffrey, maybe we should just kiss? I think that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

            He squeezed painfully hard, then his second hand slipped down from her neck to join the other above her bra. “Kiss you?” he murmured against her throat. “Why would I want to kiss you?”

            Sansa shut her eyes and bit back a whimper— _the seven minutes have to be over soon, don’t they? Don’t they?_ Joffrey released one of her breasts, and his hand snaked down to the waistband of her shorts.

            “Joffrey, don’t—”

            He grabbed onto the waistband and yanked her painfully towards him. “We’re just having fun, Sansa.” His thumb brushed her lace panties, and she could _feel_ the smirk radiating from his lips. “Don’t worry. This is fun.” His finger darted beneath the line of her panties, and Sansa yelped. She shoved at his chest, and the motion caused Joffrey to stumble back into the wooden shelf behind him with a _thud_.

            “You bitch,” Joffrey hissed.

            He stalked back towards her, and before she could get out so much as a mumbled please, he slapped her across the cheek. The force sent her spinning back into a shelf, and the wood smacked into her eye with a sickening smack. As Sansa sank to the floor, tears pricked her eyes, and she brought a finger up to the spot of impact. She whimpered when she poked the tender skin—she didn’t feel any blood, but it would be purple by tomorrow morning.

            Joffrey loomed before her, his breathing ragged. “If you tell anyone I hit you, I’ll tell them what a slut you are. Now get up, and we’ll go back to the game.” He made no move to reach for her, and when he finally flung the pantry door back open, Sansa blinked at the flooding light. She steadied herself on a shelf, pushed to her feet, and followed Joffrey back into the living room.

            Everyone was still laughing and drinking when they returned to their spots in the circle. Someone had flipped Elvis over, and Sansa listened only to his gentle voice as the game went on. She could feel Margaery’s eyes on her, but Sansa ignored her friend. It was her birthday. Everything was fine. Just fine.

            The party went on for another half hour, but when all they had left were empty glass bottles and bowls of crumbs, Margaery herded the guests to the door. Joffrey stood with Myrcella as they waited to say goodbye. Sansa hugged the Lannister girl, then raised her eyes to meet Joffrey’s. His were cold as ice.

            “Thanks for coming,” Sansa said quietly.

            His eyes flicked her up and down. When he leaned in for a one-armed hug, Sansa stiffened, and her eyes stung again.

            Meera and Jojen were the last to trickle out, then the door finally slammed shut. Sansa turned around to find Margaery watching her.

            “What?”

            Margaery pursed her lips. “What happened in there?”

            Sansa swallowed. “Nothing. We talked.”

            Margaery strode forward, then she grabbed Sansa’s chin and turned her face to the side. “He hit you.”

            “I ran into a shelf.”

            “No you didn’t.”

            “I did.”

            “Stop lying.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you’re scaring me.” Margaery dropped her chin, and Sansa saw that her own eyes were glassy with tears. “Did Joffrey hit you?”

            _Yes. He hit me instead of kissed me._ Sansa gave the slightest of nods, then at Margaery’s quick breath, she crumpled into her friend’s arms. They sank down onto the floor like that, together, and stayed until Sansa had no tears left inside.

 

**Monday June 20, 1977**

            Sansa patted the creamy beige concealer into her skin, trying not to wince for Margery’s sake. Margaery sat on the locker room bench behind her, watching Sansa reapply the makeup before gym class. A black eye had bloomed the morning after her party, and Sansa had immediately stolen some of her mom’s makeup before her parents returned home. And it was sort of working—no one had asked, no one knew as far as Sansa could tell. No one except Margaery.

            “Done.” Sansa screwed the lid of the concealer tube closed, then tossed it in her little red locker. “Let’s go pretend to exercise.”

            Margaery trailed behind her as they emerged into the noisy gym. As they stretched, Margaery chattered on about some gossip concerning the freshman girls, and Sansa happily listened. After admitting to Margaery what Joffrey had done during the game, Sansa made her friend promise she wouldn’t bring it up again. She didn’t want to think about Joffrey’s hands under her shirt, in her shorts, creeping into her nightmare that night. It didn’t matter, anyway. He’d never want to kiss her again, much less be her escort to the debutante ball. Maybe Loras would be home from college and could take her...

            “Sansa.”

            She looked up at her name, then she followed Margaery’s gaze over to the boy’s locker room. Joffrey and his friends sauntered out, and they were headed straight towards her.

            “Hi, Margaery,” Joffrey called out as he approached. His friends stayed behind a few steps, but the smirks they wore sent Sansa’s stomach into uneasy knots. Joffrey’s bright eyes flicked to Sansa, and his gaze swept over to her. “Sansa. Run into any walls lately?”

            The boys chuckled, and Sansa’s cheeks burned red. Margaery began to push herself up off the floor, but Sansa shook her head. Joffrey gave her one more sneer, then he and his friends jogged off.

            “Let me go after him,” Margaery said darkly, her eyes trained on Joffrey’s retreating form.

            Sansa sighed. “It’s no use. Just…leave it, ok?”

            “Sansa, you shouldn’t let him talk like that to you!”

            “I said leave it, Marg.” She wasn’t sure what Joffrey had told his friends, but she knew that retaliation of any kind would have the whole school, probably the whole town, knowing she was a slut. After all, she had willingly gone in the pantry with him. Sansa couldn’t bear that news reach her parents.

            Margaery pressed her lips together, then she nodded. “Still, maybe you should get out of here.”

            “I can’t just cut class.”

            “Sansa, it’s the last class of the day. And it’s not like Tormund would even notice.” She jerked her head towards the gymnasium office, and through the open blinds Sansa could just make out Tormund in there with Ms. Tarth. The principal sat on the desk, laughing and smiling down at their teacher. “Just go out the front doors,” Margaery told her. “No one will stop you, but if they do just say you have you’re period. Works like a charm.”

            Sansa smiled gratefully at her friend. “You’re the best, you know that?”

            “Oh, I know.”

 

* * *

 

            Jaime had driven early to pickup Myrcella and Joffrey up from school—he just couldn’t stand hanging around Cersei any longer in that house. Now he leaned up against his Mustang facing the school, waiting for the kids to stream out in that tiresome, chatty way high schoolers moved. _Like packs_ , Jaime thought, crossing his arms. _Like packs of…hyenas, aren’t they?_

            One of the front doors suddenly swung open to reveal Sansa Stark striding out. Her eyes seemed to drift around nervously, like she was waiting for something or someone to go after her. Jaime didn’t move as she made her way towards the parking lot. She hadn’t spotted him yet. Her path, however, went directly past where he stood.

            She was a car away when she finally looked up. Her eyes met Jaime’s, and a hint of fear crossed over her face. Sansa ducked her head behind her swinging red hair and picked up her pace as if she hadn’t seen him.

            “Hey, wait—” Jaime jogged up to her. He reached for her shoulder, but she turned around before his fingers even brushed her. She kept her face pointed away, and she bit her lip.

            “What do you want?” Sansa asked, still averting his eyes.

            “I just…you looked upset. And I didn’t think you were the kinda girl to cut class.”

            “Gym class,” she muttered under her breath.

            _Gym class._ Jaime nodded, pretending to know what she was on about. “Is everything all right?” he asked carefully.

            “Yes.”

            “Then why won’t you look at me?” Sansa didn’t move. But her body did—her shoulders tensed, her lip wobbled, and her fingers curled into her palms. _Something really is wrong_ , Jaime thought as he studied her. Her birthday party came to mind, and Jaime wondered if something had happened with Joffrey—maybe the boy still hadn’t kissed her?

            “Sansa, look at me.” When her lip only trembled more, Jaime sighed and reached for her face. He grasped her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, and for a second he imagined her leaning into his touch. That thought was quickly pushed aside when his eyes landed on a hint of darkness tinting the skin around her right eye. A layer of makeup had clearly been applied, but the discoloration peeked through. With his free hand, Jaime licked his thumb. He dragged it over the skin.

            A bruise emerged as he wiped away the makeup—a black eye, though he didn’t bother uncovering the entire thing. Jaime had seen enough. His fingers on her chin slid open until he cupped her cheek, just in case she tried to pull away and hide the mark. “Joffrey did this,” Jaime growled. It wasn’t a question, and she knew it too.

            “Yes.” Her whisper washed over his face, and Jaime realized they stood only inches apart. Jaime cleared his throat, then his hand fell limply to his side as he stepped slightly back. “But p—please, Jaime, you can’t do anything about it.”

            Anger surged inside of him—if Jaime had been alone, he would have turned and smashed his first into the nearest helpless car. He wanted to snap at something, her maybe, and yell that he could do whatever he fucking well liked. That he’d give Joffrey two black eyes for the price of her one. Jaime’s fingers curled into a fist, then he froze.

            She was right. Not for whatever reasons she had, but Jaime couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t screw up his father’s stupid plan. But he couldn’t just let Joffrey get away with it—Tywin brought Jaime into the plan to keep Sansa safe until the debutante ball and to make Jaime a trustworthy figure in her life. Tywin also needed Joffrey alive and well to marry her. Jaime found himself stuck between two choices, two courses of action.

            Did he want to protect Sansa? Or did he want to help his family?

            A delicate touch on Jaime’s arm dragged him back to reality. “Jaime?” she whispered.

            He gazed down at her, and his anger crumpled at her wide, fearful eyes. One was ringed in purple, kissed with blue.

            Jaime had his answer.

            “Go home,” Jaime muttered.

            “I don’t want you to hurt Joffrey,” she said softly, almost like the words themselves pained her. “Promise me you won’t.”

            Jaime pulled away from her touch, and he glared into her eyes. “I don’t make promises, sweetheart.”

            Jaime’s eyes met Joffrey’s as he and Myrcella moved through the crowd of students, and it took all of Jaime’s restraint not to march up and throttle him right there. Instead, he slid into the driver’s seat, and when Myrcella stepped up to the backseat door, he gave her a quick smile.

            “Hello, Uncle Jaime,” said Myrcella happily.

            “Myrcella. How was school?”

            “Terribly boring, as usual.”

            She threw her backpack into the seat, then climbed inside. As Joffrey walked around the front of the car, Jaime pressed the lock button and twisted his key in the ignition.

            Joffrey yanked on his door. When it didn’t budge, his eyes snapped up to Jaime. “Um, what are you doing?”

            Jaime slipped on his sunglasses. “Driving Myrcella home.”

            “You’re supposed to drive both of us home—mother _said_ you had to pick me and Myrcella up from school.” Joffrey’s voice was raised into a shrill whine, and other students milling through the parking lot glanced at the Mustang curiously. One girl laughed until Joffrey shot her a nasty look and she scampered off.

            “She did, didn’t she?” Jaime put the car in drive, and with one hand on the wheel, he smirked up at Joffrey. “Too bad I don’t drive home cunts who hit girls.”

            Fuming, Joffrey threw is backpack onto the seat and attempted to hop into the convertible. “Mother will hear about th—”

            Jaime eased on the gas, shooting the Mustang forward and throwing Joffrey flat on his ass. As the car took off from the parking lot, Joffrey’s shrieks followed until the school faded into forest and he was nothing more than a speck in the rearview mirror.

            “Uncle Jaime?” Myrcella’s voice was small from the backseat.

            “Yes?”

            “Joffrey deserved that, didn’t he?”

            “He deserved far more than that.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Smoke drifted into the dry, summer air as Jaime looked down over Casterly Rock’s back grounds from his perch on the windowsill. Without rain for some time, the clipped grass stuck up from the ground in little brown clumps. When the breeze picked up, the trees’ parched branches crackled as if one wrong gust would snap them into twigs. The view from Jaime’s childhood bedroom wasn’t a bad one, but it was different now. On the edge of the property, a great magnolia tree twisted into the sky, its drooping branches wide and close to the ground—perfect for climbing. But where there had once been a tire swing, only a decaying rope swung lazily in the wind. His mother Joanna had put up that tire swing. And now, just like his mother, it was gone. Faded into the decade he spent away from this place, forgotten by everyone but Jaime.

            The door creaked open from across the room. Thinking it the wind, Jaime took another drag of his cigarette as he gazed at the magnolia. _Maybe I can fix it_ , he mused as the rope swung tauntingly in a breeze.

            “How dare you.”

            Jaime started looked over towards the door. “Cersei. Have you gotten lost? Your room’s down the hall.”

            His sister slammed the door shut behind her. Anger danced in her emerald eyes as she marched up to him. When her hand flew up to slap him, Jaime caught her wrist in his fingers. “How dare you,” she said again.

            “How dare I what?”

            Cersei wrenched free. “You left Joffrey at the school.”

            “Most kids walk, you know.” Her fingers twitched—she wanted to try to  hit him again. Jaime eyed her hand, then breathed in the sweet smoke of his cigarette. She could try, but she knew better than that. He let go.

            “You have no right discipling my son like that,” said Cersei finally. 

            “Your son? You know what he did, right? What he did at the Stark girl’s birthday party?”

            Cersei drew herself up to her full height. With Jaime on the windowsill, she loomed above him like a willowy, golden goddess. Only her grimace ruined the pretty picture. “Of course I know what he did,” she said quietly. “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

            “It better not, or father’s plan will all be for nothing.”

            “And what about you, Jaime? Is lusting after the Stark girl part of father’s plan?”

            Jaime breathed out a dark laugh. “I’m here to keep Sansa safe until the ball,” he told her. “To get her to trust me.”

            Cersei’s gaze swept over him, and Jaime fought the urge to squirm beneath her cool stare. “You think you care for the bitch. Why? Why would you care about some little girl when she’s just a tool for us to use?”

            _Why don’t you care about me_ —that’s what his sister was really getting at. _Why don’t you love me anymore_. The answer was quite simple, really. Ten years away had shriveled Jaime’s feeling for her sister into a dry husk. And Sansa…Sansa was the breeze that turned it into dust. Jaime didn’t have _feelings_ for the Stark girl, but somehow she had managed to worm her way into his head. Her innocence reminded him of hope, and Jaime had not hoped for anything in a very long time.

            “The Starks will become suspicious of us if they find out Joffrey is mistreating Sansa,” Jaime said stiffly. “Tell Joffrey to make it up to her, and tell him to ask her to the ball. God willing Sansa will have no choice but to accept the little shit’s offer.”

            He knew his sister had heard him, but she made no move to leave. Jaime raised his cigarette to his lips, but two slender fingers plucked it from his mouth. Cersei snuffed it out then sat down beside him on the windowsill. Their shoulders brushed. Her knee bumped against his.

            “Jaime,” she murmured, her hand sliding up the denim of his thigh. Jaime watched her fingers, watched them claw desperately into the fabric. Her lips found his ear. “She’ll never love you like I do,” Cersei breathed out. A shiver rushed down Jaime’s spine. “No one can.”

            It was in this bedroom that he and his twin kissed for the first time. On this very windowsill when they were six years old. Jaime still remembered the maid walking in on them, how she scurried off and told their mother. How Cersei’s bedroom was moved to the other wing of the house. He had loved Cersei since that day with all his heart, and as her lips found his neck and her fingers curled around his own, guilt boiled inside him. Caring had destroyed everything Jaime ever had—his relationship with his sister, his mother, his brother. Caring too much for the family he loved had sent Jaime to prison.

            He didn’t have to love Cersei anymore, but he couldn’t care about Sansa either. He couldn’t care about anyone.

            Jaime stood, pushing Cersei away from him. She grabbed his hand, but Jaime stepped away. “Tell Joffrey to ask Sansa to the ball,” he said curtly. Jaime strode away from the room with his sister frozen on the windowsill.

 

* * *

 

            “Sansa, could you get the mail?” Catelyn had Rickon on one hip, a stirring spoon in one hand. A pot boiled on the stove. “Please?”

            “Ask Arya”

            “She’s upstairs doing homework.”

            “ _I’m_ doing homework.”

            “Well, you’re already downstairs.”

            Sansa dragged her eyes away from her worksheet—some dumb end of the year English assignment. “Ok,” she muttered. She left the kitchen behind and made her way to the front door. Crickets sung into the night, and a car with beaming yellow lights rushed past. Sansa bounded down the side ramp her father had built for Bran, then she made her way barefoot over to the  front of the house. Just as her hand found the metal mailbox still warm from the day’s sun, she heard a clink of glass from across the street.

            Jaime sat on his front porch with a beer bottle to his lips and a whole case beside him. In the dark, she couldn’t see how many were already empty. He was watching her.

            Sansa ran her tongue nervously over her lips. He had been so…angry outside the school today. But when he touched her, when he dragged his wet thumb over her blackeye, his gentle touch had sent shivers down her body. His anger frightened her, but his touch even more so. She wanted to know what it felt like to have him touch her again.

            Her hand dropped away from the mailbox, and she walked briskly across the street. Margaery screamed at her in her head to stay away, but something Sansa couldn’t quite name compelled her to walk right up to him. Her stomach fluttered as he put his beer down to stare at her approach. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement. Or both.

            She stopped a foot away from his spot on the porch, and she realized she hadn’t planned what to say. Sansa’s toes curled into the gravel. She glanced at his beer case—including the one he’d been drinking, two out of the eight were empty. The green glass shimmered beneath the light of the full moon hanging low in the clear sky.

            “Hey.” _So lame._ Margaery would have laughed.

            Jaime raised his brows. “Hey yourself.”

            Should she ask him about what happened outside the school today? Ask about Joffrey? Ask why he had cupped her cheek and held her still?

            “What are you doing out here?”

            A smirk crept over his face. “Drinking.”

            She blushed. “I mean why.”

            “Did you ever drink the beer I gave you?”

            She blinked, surprised. “Um, no. Not yet. I…haven’t had a good reason.”

            “Well, when you find one, you’ll understand why I’m drinking.” He held up one of the untouched bottles.

            She eyed it cautiously. “I’m not allowed,” she said, wincing at how dumb she sounded.

            Jaime chuckled, but there was no mocking in the low laughter. “I didn’t give you a beer the other day because you were _allowed_ to have it.”

            “Then why did you?”

            Jaime ran a hand through his hair, and he looked away down the road. “Because someday, sweetheart, you’re gonna want one.”

            Sansa inched closer, her feet rubbing painfully on the gravel. With him sitting on the porch and her before him, she was almost standing between his open legs. His eyes were at height with her chest, and Sansa was glad she had on one of Bran’s old t-shirts that hung loose over her frame. “Why did you stop me outside school today?” she asked softly, gazing at his face.

            Jaime looked back to her. His lips were set in a hard line. “You looked upset. Anyone would have.”

            Sansa shook her head, and the tendrils that had escaped her braid brushed against her cheeks. “I passed five other people on my way out the school. No one stopped me. No one cared except you.”

            Jaime reached for his beer, and he took a hard swallow. “I don’t care,” he snapped. When the bottle was drained, Jaime set it aside and wiped his hand across his mouth. “You girls are all the same. You think that a  young, pretty face is all it takes, don’t you?”

            “What? No—”

            “That every man you meet is supposed to just care the moment he lays eyes on you.”

            Sansa stumbled a step back. _Why is he so angry at me?_ “That’s not true.”

            Jaime’s eyes darkened, but she still couldn’t see the anger of his words behind the flashing emerald. He just looked…sad. Hurt, like a little boy. “Go home, sweetheart,” Jaime growled. “Run back to your mama and tell her the scary man across the street hurt your feelings.”

            “No.” Sansa lifted her chin, and she closed the distance between them. One of her hands brushed against the inside of his jeans before she pulled it back to her side. “You don’t get to pretend to be the bad guy.” Hesitantly, Sansa raised her hand towards his cheek. She wanted to touch him like he had touched her.

            “Don’t.” Jaime caught her wrist. Sansa gasped at the sudden, crushing pressure of his fingers.

            “Why?”

            “Because you’re not gonna like what I do next.”

            “Let go.” Sansa tried to wiggle free, but he held her fast. “What are you going to do? Hit me like Joffrey did?”

            His fingers loosened, and Sansa took the opportunity to yank herself free. When she glared into Jaime’s eyes, she found them wide and pained.

            “I’m not Joffrey” he muttered. He glanced away.

            Sansa rubbed her wrist. “Then who are you, Jaime?”

            “You don’t wanna know.”

            “Are the rumors true? About why you went to prison?” His brows lifted in a non-answer, so she tried again. “People say it was for something violent.”

            Jaime met her eyes, and without breaking their gaze, he reached over and picked up a beer, then took back his half-finished one. Sansa stared at the bottle until he pushed it into her hand. “Do you really want to know who I am?” She nodded. The beer sweated into her palm. “Then you have to drink first.” She didn’t move. “Go on.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’m gonna show you somethin’, and you won’t wanna to be sober to see it.”

 

            They finished their beers in a silence broken only by the hum of night. Jaime drained his in one gulp while Sansa choked hers down. When she had finished, Jaime picked up two more bottles, pushed himself to his feet, and began walking down the road in the direction of the other houses. As she trailed behind him, Sansa eyed the houses nervously. With their windows glowing from within, Sansa prayed they couldn’t see the girl following a man down the dark road. She didn’t want her mother finding out about this, and hopefully she assumed Sansa had gone over to Margaery’s when she never returned with the mail.

            They walked all the way down to the very last of the manor homes. Sunspear was one of the prettier houses, or so Sansa always thought, and in the glow of the moon its marble walls gleamed a shade of rosy white. But Jaime didn’t stop where the road ended at the cul-de-sac. He marched on into the woods, and Sansa had no choice but to follow him.

            “Where are we going?” Sansa asked. She kept her voice in a low whisper—even though there was nothing around but the forest animals sneaking out beneath the cover of night, the place made her uneasy. These weren’t the familiar wooded grounds around Winterfell or Highgarden, and Sansa didn’t even think that Arya had ever ventured this far from the neighborhood.

            Jaime didn’t answer, so Sansa jogged up and grabbed his arm. He stopped. But instead of saying anything, he simply handed her one of the beers. “We’re almost there,” he told her. Jaime continued on.  

            When the trees began to thin out and more pale light filtered through the trees, Jaime slowed to a stop. When Sansa caught up, she gasped. A Victorian house rose from the forest floor, a terrible thing of dark wood, dark beams, and black shutters nailed permanently shut. Ivy snaked up all three stories, and it was a wonder that the vines had not yet reached the steeped roof. Atop a rod on the highest tower, an iron weather vane creaked as it twisted in the wind. Sansa squinted, and with a start she realized the rusted metal was carved into a three-headed dragon. She glanced down, and after brushing aside the bed of fallen pine needles, she found a pebbled driveway beneath her feet.

            “What is this place?” Sansa whispered. She looked to Jaime. He had his beer to his lips.

            “Drink,” he commanded, eyes dropping to the untouched beer hanging from her hand.

            Frowning, Sansa unscrewed the cap and took a swig. The bubbling, bitter liquid ran down her throat. She grimaced.

            “This is Dragonstone,” Jaime said quietly. He cast his eyes up to the weathervane. “The manor that belonged to your _Trailer Park Targaryens_.”

            Her frown deepened. She knew that Dany’s family had lost everything had some point, but Dany and her brother had always lived in Flea Bottom. At least they’d moved there a few years ago. “What happened to them?”

            “The Targaryens were one of the old Houses, like the Starks and Lannisters. They did business with all our fathers and their fathers before them.” He took another swig. His eyes never left the strange three-headed dragon. “Before you were born, a man named Aerys Targaryen lived here with his wife Rhaella and their sons, Rhaegar and Viserys.”

            “I know that name. Dany’s older brother.” She took a small sip of her beer.

            Jaime nodded. “It all started eighteen years ago. Viserys was just a little boy when Rhaegar got in some…fight with Sheriff Baratheon. When Baratheon shot Rhaegar, Aerys went mad, and it only got worse over the next eight years. The story was that Aerys took his hunting rifle and shot his pregnant wife in the back. Then he took that rifle and went after Rhaegar’s wife Elia and their two children.”

            A cold wave of nausea ran through her. “Aerys killed the children? And the women?”

            The hard look on Jaime’s face was answer enough. “Viserys and Rhaella managed to get away, but she died in the hospital. The doctors saved the baby, though. Daenerys.”

            Sansa felt sick—everyone at school was so cruel to Dany, and after what happened to her family… “What happened to Aerys?” Sansa whispered. “Did he go to prison?”

            Jaime chuckled mirthlessly, then he drained half of his beer. “He killed himself with the same rifle that slaughtered his family.” Jaime finished the bottle and tossed it aside. It rolled against the forest floor before coming to a hollow _clink_ against a loose stone. “That’s the story, anyway. The one in the papers.”

            “What?”

            “The story, sweetheart. It’s just a story.”

            Sansa bit her lip. “Then what’s the truth?”

            Jaime turned to look at her. With his back to the moon, his face was masked in shadow. “Finish that beer, then I’ll tell you.”

            She didn’t dare ask why. Sansa raised the bottle to her lips and tipped back her head. Jaime watched her until the last drop had spilled down her throat.

            Jaime nodded just slightly in approval. “Aerys was in business with my father, Tywin. You know that they don’t just mine minerals, don’t you?”

            “Yes,” she answered quietly. Her father had come home with shaking hands enough nights for Sansa to realize that.

            “My father believes that a madman makes for terrible business. Or maybe Aerys had already gotten some crazy idea in his head. I don’t know—it doesn’t matter. On the night of the murders, Tywin sent his men into this house,” Jaime said, glancing up at it. “I don’t know what my father intended—if he wanted to kill Elia, Rhaella, and their children too—but they did. They shot Rhaella, then they slaughtered everyone but Viserys in their beds. They killed Aerys last, set it up to look like a suicide.”

            Sansa took a sharp intake of breath. “How do you know this?”

            “Because I was there,” Jaime whispered hoarsely. “Tywin forced me to stand outside and watch his men go in and do their job. What was I supposed to say—no?  My father is not the kind of man you say no to.”

            “But—but you didn’t kill anyone. How…you went to prison.”

            “When the police showed up, I was standing in the doorway like an idiot. Aerys lay in a pool of his own blood. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. When the Sheriff found the gun Aerys had supposedly shot his family and self with, they realized it was registered to my family. It wasn’t hard for the Sheriff to make the case that I had given the gun to Aerys. That I helped him kill all those women and babies. I was charged with accessory to murder. They gave me ten years for that.” Jaime stepped towards her, and when a shaft of moonlight fell across his face, Sansa saw the tears in his eyes, the anger distorting his handsome features. “That’s who I am, Sansa. Are you happy now?”

            “You didn’t kill anyone.”

            “I _did_. I killed them by doing nothing!”

            Sansa’s eyes fell to Jaime’s trembling hands. “You don’t scare me.” Her gaze lifted, and Jaime tensed beneath it.

            “I watched my father’s men slaughter an entire family!” Jaime roared. Sansa flinched. Birds fluttered up into the midnight sky. “I watched and did nothing,” he spat.

            “You were young and stupid,” Sansa said softly. She stepped closer. Jaime didn’t move. “Could you have really stopped your father? Would it have changed anything?”

            Something flickered across Jaime’s face, and the anger faded into a twist of pain and guilt. “You should be scared of me,” he told her. “Scared of my family.”

            “Nothing has happened in this town for ten years.” Sansa took another step closer. She stood just inches from Jaime, just inches from his rapidly rising and falling chest. Sansa took a shaky breath, then she gently placed her palm over his heart. It hammered against her, and his breathing hitched at the sudden touch. “I’m not scared of you,” she whispered, reaching for his face.

            For a second time that night, Jaime grabbed her wrist, and he bent her arm away from him. “You should be,” he hissed back. “You know what I did.”

            Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I think?”

            “Do tell, sweetheart.”

            “I think you want everyone to hate you.”

            His fingers tightened. “And why would I want that?”

            “So you can be alone.” She shifted closer, pressing their lifted arms against his chest. “So no one knows how guilty you feel. How much it hurts you.” Her gaze drifted to his fingers clutching her skin. Like she was a life raft, and he was sinking beneath the sea. “You’re scared, but I know you don’t want to let go.”

            Jaime breathed out, and his fingers fell away. For a moment, Sansa thought he’d actually given in to the scared little boy hiding behind his arrogant mask. He pressed closer, and his breath washed over Sansa’s mouth. She wondered if he’d kiss her. But then his hand fell limply to his side, and he turned sharply away. Jaime stepped towards the abandoned house.

            “You should go home,” he said brusquely. He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched his boot as it scraped against the ground.

            Sansa glanced behind them. The trees curved inward, like claws, and when the wind picked up, the branches crackled and the weather vane sang its sharp, metallic tune. She turned back to Jaime. “It’s dark,” she said. “And late.”

            Jaime turned to stare at her. He smirked, but there was no amusement in his eyes. Just a cloak of ugly resentment, and it was pointed right at her. “What? This town ain’t safe as you once thought?”

            “You’re an asshole,” Sansa spat. Her eyes stung. She blamed it on the wind. Sansa looked down to the half drunk beer bottle in her hand, then tossed it to the side. It shattered against an old oak tree, but not even that made Jaime turn back around.

            As tears spilled down Sansa’s cheeks, she took off running into the forest, and she didn’t stop until her feet found the rough, familiar stones of the driveway. She looked back, but the woods were silent, and no shapes came charging towards her from its depths.

            _Leave him to the ghosts_ , she thought bitterly. She walked quickly back to Winterfell and did not look back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this separated into two chapters originally, but since most of it takes place on the same day (and I know ya'll are desperate from some good Jaime/Sansa time) I put it together. Do you mind the length? I usually try to stay under 4k per chapter.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed and please let me know what you think! :)


	6. Just a Little Rain

****

**Monday June 20, 1977**

            Sansa didn’t tell anyone what happened at the old Targaryen manor. When her mother asked why she took so long getting the mail, Sansa lied and said she had to go over to Highgarden to return a record borrowed from Margaery. Catelyn was delighted—her mother loved music and was always trying to get Sansa to love it too.

 

**Tuesday, June 21, 1977**

            At lunch the next day, Margaery couldn’t stop talking about all the summer dates she had planned with Oberyn. Sansa listened dutifully to her talk about east coast beaches and villas in the south of Spain. It gave her time to think about Jaime’s story, and when her eyes fell on Dany sitting with Gendry and Daario on their usual bench, she thought about her too. Sansa couldn’t imagine having her whole family killed like that. _If that happened to me_ , Sansa thought sadly, _I don’t think I’d have anything left to live for._

            “Sansa? What do you think?

            Sansa dragged her eyes back to her friend. “Sorry—what?”

            “I _asked_ what you think I should wear to the ball.”

            Right. They had gone out shopping to find Margaery a debutante gown, and now Margaery had three dresses stuffed into her closet. Margaery swore she’d return the two she didn’t wear later, but Sansa knew it was a lie. Margaery liked pretty things, and she didn’t give them up easily. “I love all three,” Sansa told her.

            Margaery smiled, pleased. “I described the gowns to Oberyn. Now, he said he’d prefer me in the turquoise, but I don’t think it would go with my lipstick, would it? Grandmother likes the white, but I hardly think it’s appropriate for Oberyn to see me in a white gown…”

            Sansa tuned her out, nodding here and there, humming in agreement when required. Sansa would be wearing her mother’s old dress: a navy blue gown with delicate capped sleeves, a lace-trimmed square neckline, and a full skirt that fell right above her ankles. It was a little old-fashioned, but then again, her mother had worn it in the fifties.

            Her mind drifted back to Jaime, and a surge of anger coursed through her. He acted like he was so…noble making everyone hate him for a crime she was sure he could never have stopped. Jaime believed he was above caring for other people. _For me_ , Sansa thought. _He thinks he’s above caring for me._ Maybe it was selfish and stupid to even imagine that there was a possibility of him caring for her, but there was a moment last night that gave her a sliver of hope. When Jaime held her wrist and trapped her arm between them, he had stared down at her with such truth. He almost kissed her then, she was sure of it, but something had made Jaime let go.

            Sansa desperately wanted to know what stopped him. If she knew, maybe he wouldn’t stop himself again. _I really am crazy_ , Sansa thought. _Believing Jaime would want to kiss me even after last night._

            “Sansa!” Margaery was waving her sandwich in front of Sana’s face, trying to get her attention. Sansa’s eyes refocused on her exasperated friend. “Did you hear me? I said Trystane came up to me this morning and asked to escort me to the ball.”

            Sansa blinked. “That’s wonderful.”

            “Obviously he doesn’t know about me and Oberyn, but I still think we’ll have a good time. He’s a sweet boy, really. You should have heard Myrcella talk about him after your birthday party—she’s practically in love. Too bad she’s not old enough to be a debutante yet.” Margaery’s mouth fell open, then she pressed her cheek into her palm. “I’m so sorry, darling. I shouldn’t have brought up the party.”

            “It’s ok,” Sansa said quietly. “The bruise doesn’t hurt anymore.” It still looked horrific, but as long as no one else tried to rub off her concealer, Sansa was in the clear.

            Margaery pursed her lips. “What about the ball? Obviously you can’t go with Joffrey anymore.”

            Sansa sighed. “I don’t know…maybe I can convince Arya to let Gendry take me. That’s _if_ my parents even approve of letting a Flea Bottom boy be my escort.”

            “Maybe I can get Loras to come down for the weekend. He’s a little older, but I don’t think anyone would mind.”

            “Really?” Sansa smiled.

            “Of course, darling. And besides, you have nothing to worry about with Loras. He’s nothing like Joffrey.”

            “I know. We played with him all the time when we were little.”

            Margaery glanced around before leaning in over the table. “I mean you’re not his type,” Margaery whispered. “Do you remember Renly?”

            Sansa nodded. “Sheriff Baratheon’s younger brother…and your first kiss, if I remember correctly.”

            Margaery gave her a knowing smirk. “Let’s just say that Renly wasn’t the only boy who a Tyrell had their first kiss with.”

            Sansa’s lips parted in surprise. “Loras?”

            “Apparently they became quite close when they went off to college together.”

            It didn’t exactly surprise Sansa—Loras had always preferred playing with her and Margaery to other boys in the neighborhood. And she didn’t mind either. No one was supposed to talk about boys loving boys, girls loving girls, but that didn’t mean it never happened. She was a little sad, though, thinking about Loras and Renly. They could never have the happy ending everyone else got just because of who they loved.

            “Well if he does agree to come down, tell him thanks from me,” Sansa said. “If Loras can’t do it, then we might have to form a trio with Trystane.” Margaery laughed. “Or you can just go with Oberyn, then I can have Trystane all to myself.”

            “I wish,” Margaery answered wistfully. “Just imagine the fit everyone would throw when I walk down the stairs with Oberyn Martell on my arm.”

 

            Usually Sansa only tolerated family dinnertime, but for once her father was home, and everyone was in a good mood. Her mother spooned mouthfuls of buttery sweet potato in Rickon’s slimy, waiting mouth, her father and Bran were debating something to do with the Soviets and outer space, and Arya kept sneaking extra dinner rolls from the basket she’d managed to put directly in front of her plate. Sansa was just about to steal one from her sister when she looked up to a knock at the door.

            Catelyn frowned as she wiped an orange glob from Rickon’s mouth. “Who could that be?”

            “No one cares about family time anymore, do they eh?” Ned scraped back his chair and made his way over to the door. “Joffrey?”

            Sansa stiffened. “Did he say Joffrey?” she tried to peer down the hallway, but a fig plant blocked her view of the door.

            “Yeah,” Arya said through a mouthful of bread. She swallowed down the lump. “Your boyfriend.” She made kissing sounds. Sansa stared at her plate as her cheeks grew hot. _What is he doing here?_ Two pairs of footsteps shuffled down the hall. _What does he want?_

            Joffrey stopped in the threshold of the kitchen, and her father stood awkwardly by the counter. “Hello, Mrs. Stark.” He nodded to each of her siblings. “Arya, Bran, Rickon…and Sansa, of course.” She didn’t move at the sound of her name.

            “Joffrey.” Her mother sounded uncertain. “We would invite you to stay for supper, but you can see that the casserole’s been eaten up.” She gestured towards the dish.

            “I can eat something else.” He settled down into the one empty seat.

            Catelyn tried to hide her grimace through a polite smile, but Sansa could see through her mother’s well-practiced courtesy—Sansa had learned it from her, after all. Sansa tested a look at Joffrey, and she found him watching her with a smug smirk of satisfaction. “There’s some leftover chicken in the fridge,” Catelyn told him. As she began making him a plate, Ned sat back down and watched Joffrey over a bite of casserole.

            “Sansa, what happened to your face?” Joffrey asked suddenly. All eyes fell on her.

            “Nothing.” She squirmed in her seat.

            “What do you mean?” Bran asked. “Your face does look…different.”

            “It’s makeup.”

            “Makeup?” her father questioned.

            “What’s he on about?” Arya demanded.

            “Sana?” Rickon whined.

            Sansa gripped her fork. “Nothing I…” she glanced at Joffrey. With everyone’s eyes on her, only Sansa could see his chilling grin. “I ran into a shelf. In the pantry.”

            “Honey?” Catelyn  said from the counter. “Why didn’t you say something?”

            Sansa turned to Joffrey—she kept her smile pretty, but her eyes were filled with loathing. “I didn’t think it mattered,” she said. “Besides, I can handle it myself.”

            The corner of Joffrey’s wormy lips twitched, and his stare was only broken by her mother as she set a plate of leftovers down in front of him. When Catelyn eased back into her seat, she frowned at Sansa but said nothing more as she returned to feeding Rickon.

            “So why _are_ you here?” Arya asked.

            “Arya, don’t be rude,” Catelyn retorted.

            “No, it’s quite all right.” Joffrey glanced at his chicken with a grimace, then pushed to his feet. “Sansa.”

            Her brows creased, and her stomach flipped. “Yes?”

            Joffrey took a long breath, and Sansa just _knew_ he did it for the dramatics. “I came here tonight because there is only one girl in this town I can imagine attending the debutante ball with.”

            “Oh, here we go,” Arya muttered before their father shushed her.

            “Sansa.” Joffrey stepped around to her side of the table. “May I have the honor of escorting you to the debutante ball?”

            Someone’s fork clattered against a plate.

            “Sansa,” her mother pressed. “Give the boy an answer.”

            Sansa choked down a scream. Joffrey knew exactly what he was doing. He knew he hurt her in the pantry, he knew how much she had wanted him to like her, and he _knew_ that Sansa couldn’t say no without explaining exactly why she ended up in a pantry on the night of her birthday with him. She was trapped.

            Sansa ducked her head—she couldn’t bear to look at his disgusting face right now. “How kind of you,” she muttered. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them furiously back. Even if anyone noticed, they’d think her some emotional teenager getting validation from a cute boy. “I would love to have you escort me.”

            “Wonderful. Thank you for the supper, Mrs. Stark. It was lovely,” he said, eyeing his untouched plate. He turned to her father. “And thank you for allowing me to escort your daughter, Mr. Stark. You can trust me to keep her safe.” Before either of her parents could respond, Joffrey gave Sansa one last, smug look, then took off for the front door.

            No one spoke until the door slammed shut. Her parents glanced at each other, and some kind of silent communication passed through them.

            “Sansa?” Bran asked. “Why do you look so pale?”

            She folded her fingers in her lap, and her mother’s scrutinizing gaze fell over her. “I’m fine, Bran.”

            “Your sister’s just overwhelmed from the news,” Catelyn told him with a soft smile. “It’s not every day a girl gets to be a debutante. And escorted by a boy as handsome as Joffrey, I might add. I remember it well myself.”

            Ned frowned at Catelyn. “Petyr Baelish took you to your ball.”

            “He did?” Arya asked, her jaw slack. Sansa was surprised too.

            Her mother’s smile faltered. “Yes, Ned. I haven’t forgotten.”

            Ned dragged a napkin over his mouth, then he tossed it on his plate. There was still half a slice of casserole left on it, and a dinner roll too. “I’m happy for you, Sansa,” he said as he pushed up from the table. They listened to his footsteps stomp up the staircase, then the familiar slam of the door to the master bedroom.

            Arya stared at their father’s empty chair. “What was that about?”

            Catelyn pressed her lips into a hard line. She began to clear the table. “The past,” Catelyn sighed when she set the dishes in the sink. She gave her children a sad smile. “It’s hard to forget the past sometimes. Especially when you hurt the people you love.”

 

            After everyone had gone to bed that night, Sansa tiptoed down the stairs and padded her socked feet out the front door. Joffrey’s proposal had rattled her, and as Sansa tried to fall to sleep, her mind refused to shut up about it. If this had been any other thing, she would have just snuck downstairs and used the phone. Tonight, however, warranted a midnight trip to Highgarden.

            Sansa scanned the house across the street before leaving the porch, but the windows were dark, and there was no man drinking himself away tonight. Sansa made quick work of the path to Highgarden, but when she reached the hill on the edge of Winterfell, she slipped on the dewy grass. Sansa shrieked as she began to slide down the slope, but she managed to catch herself before her pale nightgown could become streaked with green. The back door to Highgarden was open when she finally arrived, and Sansa silently snuck up the stairs to Margaery’s bedroom.

            Moonlight shafted across the bedroom, but as soon as Sansa eased the door open, Margaery sat up, blinking. “Sansa?” she muttered sleepily. “What time is it?”

            Sansa sat down on the end of her friend’s bed. As she gazed at her friend’s tousled locks and wiped-clean face, tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I just…I just didn’t know where else to go.”

            Margaery sat up straighter. “What happened?”

            Sansa sniffed, then she blotted her nose with the back of her hand. “I have to go with Joffrey to the ball,” she whimpered. A tear rolled down her cheek. “He came to the house and asked to escort me in front of everyone—I couldn’t say no.”

            Margaery brushed the tear away with her thumb. “I’m so sorry, darling,” Margaery murmured. Her fingers moved up to run soothing touches through Sansa’s hair. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. It’s just awful.”

            “Do you think I made the right choice? Saying yes?”

            Her friend pursed her lips. “I’m afraid so,” she said sadly. “But look at the bright side—now we know what a jerk Joffrey is. After this last week of school and the ball, you never have to see his stupid, ugly face ever again.”

            Sansa reached out and squeezed Margaery’s fingers. She tried to smile. When her lips parted, salt slid between them. “He really is ugly. I was such a stupid little girl thinking he was so _handsome_. But he’s not. He’s a monster.”

            “He is.” She clasped Sansa’s hand more firmly and met Sansa’s eyes with a fierce gaze. “You tell me if he ever hurts you again, ok?” She waited for Sansa to nod before continuing. “If he so much as says the wrong word to you at the ball, I’ll hike up my gown and go after him myself.”

 

* * *

 

**Sunday June 26, 1977**

            He woke that morning in his childhood bed to an eerily quiet house. As Jaime dressed for the day in a ripped pair of Levi’s and a soft yellow t-shirt, he tried to listen for signs that his family was underfoot—the whirl of Myrcella’s hairdryer, the sizzle of Cersei scrambling eggs on the stove, Tommen’s Sunday morning cartoons. His father was gone again, of course, but even if Tywin was home he wouldn’t make a sound. As Jaime bounded barefoot down the sweeping marble staircase, he realized that the house was, indeed, empty for the morning.

            _Must have gone to church again_ , Jaime mused as he poured himself a bowl of cereal. Cersei had become quite the religious woman after marrying the sheriff, and apparently the need to pray in one of those horribly uncomfortable pews had lingered long after Robert’s death. When Jaime had first returned home, Cersei had invited him to join them, but Jaime preferred his Sunday mornings pleasantly alone. It gave him time to wander around the house searching for reminders of his mother, time to piece together the childhood he’d left far, far behind.

            When Jaime opened one of the kitchen windows, he stuck his head out and saw the sky a light shade of grey. It was breezy but dry, and the rain likely wouldn’t set in until afternoon. It was the perfect day to rebuild a tire swing.

            Jaime walked over to the magnolia with a smile. It was one of the southern types with broad, waxy leaves and cupped white flowers dotting all the way up. A lemony scent clung to the air, and Jaime inhaled the sweet smell happily. The tree had been here long before his father took over the estate, and one of its weary, heavy branches twisted in a near right angle over the ground. As a boy, Jaime used to climb up and up until his sister screamed at him to come back down. Cersei never climbed like Jaime. It would have ruined her dresses. Her only saving grace had been the tire swing their mother put up one sticky, August afternoon. But after a few years of Jaime pushing Cersei on the swing, his twin complained that that too would ruin her dresses.

            Jaime reached up and grasped the remaining rope. The hemp had turned a sickly shade of green over the years, and the end that once knotted around a tire was frayed beyond repair. Jaime gave the rope a yank, and it dropped into his hand. He tossed it aside, then swept the surrounding lawn in search of the tire that was once suspended from the branch overhead. In one direction the yard swept out in a clipped, flat plain. In another, forest crept up to the grass’s sharp edge. Casterly Rock sat behind him, and the Kingsroad bordered the house’s front. There was no tire left to be found.

            A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Jaime’s neck, and when he squinted up at the sky, he cursed at the sun peeking out beneath a layer of gauzy grey cloud. Westeros was always too damn hot for Jaime’s liking. As Jaime made his way to the front of the house where the garage was, he pulled off his shirt. Jaime had just reached the edge of the porch when he tossed it aside, then a motion caught the corner of his eye.

            Sansa perched on her porch railing in front of a wild honeysuckle bush in need of a good trim. Her bare feet dangled against the wooden posts, and a book lay open in her lap. She flipped a page over, then glanced up.

            He felt suspended under her curious gaze—frozen beneath her stare, unsure of where to move or how. It wasn’t from the thick air threatening to storm or any kind of paralyzing fear. He felt…seen. He felt that she might snap him in two with those pretty blue eyes. And he knew, even before she gently closed her book, that she was about to walk right over.

            Jaime stood in the garage, shifting aside miscellaneous car parts with his back to the open door, when he heard her barefooted approach. He gave what he hoped was a nonchalant glance over the shoulder, sweeping her up and down with his stare. She had on tiny denim shorts and an old t-shirt, and her hair cascaded in loose waves over one shoulder. He wondered if she hoped to find him out here. He wondered if she’d put those shorts on for him.

            He wondered why he wanted to know so badly. He didn’t care about her—he had made that clear the other night at the Targaryen manor.

            Jaime quickly dragged his gaze away from the tops of her pale, slender thighs. A book dangled in her hand, and a red, curling letter ‘A’ stretched across the black cover.

            “Why are you reading?” he asked, turning back to his task of sorting through dusty metal pipes and odd rubber flaps he hadn’t a clue what they could be used for. “School’s over, ain’t it?”  

            “I was bored,” Sansa replied. He heard her step further into the garage. “My parents took everyone to some strawberry festival.”

            He frowned. “The one in North Carolina?”

            “Yep,” she said, popping the word between her lips.

            _They’ll be gone a long time then,_ he thought. He wanted to ask why she’d stayed behind, but she’d probably give him some quip about the festival being lame and for children. _Would that be the truth, sweetheart?_ Jaime turned to find her sitting on an old workbench with her knees drawn to her chest. Positioned like this, he could see the tiniest hint of white against her inner thigh. He turned sharply away, and a black, textured object caught his eye. Jaime tossed aside the parts covering it to reveal an old spare tire. He grinned.

            “You’re not going to scare me away again, you know.” Her voice was soft. His find forgotten, Jaime straightened up at her words.

            “I thought we were pretending that didn’t happen.”

            “That’s boring.”

            He smirked and pushed back his hair before turning to look at her. “Boring?” She was watching him carefully, but her eyes had to lift back up to meet his. Like she’d been staring at the bare muscles of his back—something inside him purred at the thought. “You’re just so terribly bored today, aren’t you?” She tilted her head, and her curtain of fiery hair brushed against her thigh. “I suppose we could do somethin’ about that. You can stay for a bit, if you’d like,” he told her. “But you have to help me with something.”

 

            They carried the heavy tire between them, Sansa’s arms hanging low from the weight, a fresh length of rope looped over his shoulder. Sweat slicked them both. It was a short walk back to the tree, but an exhausting one. When the tire finally fell to the grass with a satisfying thud, Sansa tilted back her head and looked up at the branch above them. Her hair kissed her narrow waist, and Jaime felt a sudden urge to run his fingers through it.

            “Are you gonna climb up there?” she asked. She sounded skeptical.

            “Nope. That’s your job, sweetheart.”

            Her mouth dropped open in indignation. “Excuse me?”

            “What, you don’t wanna scratch those pretty legs up climbing?” He said it to get a pink rise out of her, and he was rewarded when her cheeks flushed. She looked pointedly back up at the tree. “See how narrow it gets?” he said, gesturing to where the center branches twisted in on themselves before fanning back out into the sturdier ones. “I can’t fit up there like you can. Things might get dangerous.”

            Sansa pursed her lips. “Then how did you ever get a rope up there in the first place?”

            “I didn’t. My mother put it up.”

            She looked back at him, frowning. “I’ve never seen your mother around town.”

            “She died when Cersei and I were little.”

            Sansa nodded, and a solemn look crossed her face. The wind picked up a lock of hair. It stuck to her forehead before Sansa unconsciously tucked it back behind her ear. “Ok,” she said decisively. She stuck out a hand. “Give me the rope.”

            Sansa pulled herself deftly up the magnolia, and Jaime wondered if her outrage at climbing had more of a pretense against helping him. When she reached the branch they wanted, her bare feet stood heel to toe, and one thin arm stretched up to a higher branch to hold herself steady. Sansa bit her lip as she looped the rope, then called down, “Lift it up.” Jaime did as she asked, and with both of them working together, they managed to secure the tire a couple feet off the ground. Sansa grinned down at Jaime, then lowered herself to straddle the wide branch. “Come here,” she said.

            He smiled lazily up at her. “Why?” From this angle he couldn’t help but admire the long muscles of her legs sticking out from her shorts, the dirt that stained her feet from many days before this one.

            “Because I’m going to get down now, and you’re going to catch me.”

            _As you wish._ Jaime chuckled and positioned himself right below her. Sansa swung her legs over one side of the branch, then took hold of it like a pull-up bar. With a delighted shriek, Sansa dropped down until only her hands gripped the branch. Jaime positioned himself beneath her, his back to her front. She wiggled her toes on either side of his head.

            “Stop that,” Jaime snapped playfully. He wrapped his hands around her ankles, then craned his neck to look up at her. “Are you really just going to—”

            Her unexpected weight knocked the words right out of him, and Jaime stumbled forward . He hastily shifted her weight so that she sat on his shoulders, and Jaime’s hands automatically slid up to her thighs to keep her balanced. Sansa giggled as he spun around in a circle.

            “Put me down,” she laughed when he spun faster.

            Jaime chuckled, then slowed to a dizzying stop. “You’re the one who fell on me.” He crouched down, and Sansa detangled herself from his shoulders.

            “You’re the one who caught me,” she said when her feet met the grass.

            “Was I not supposed to?”

            “You were.” She grinned up at him, and as they both caught their breath, her lips closed into an innocent smile. A cold wind swept through, lifting her hair, lifting his. The swing drifted temptingly back and forth in the breeze behind her, but Jaime couldn’t find it in himself to look away.

            _You don’t care_ , his father’s voice rumbled. _You shouldn’t._

            “Come on,” she said suddenly. He was grateful that it was Sansa who broke the spell. She walked over to the swing and hoisted herself up to sit on top. She pressed her thighs around the base of the rope, and her hands wound up to grip it. She turned slowly in a circle from the motion. “Come push me,” she called out when she faced him again.  

            Chuckling and shaking his head, Jaime stepped behind her. His hands found her back, and he gave her a firm shove in the opposite direction. As the tire swung out, her head tipped back, and when she rushed past Jaime, she beamed.

            “Happy now?” He pushed her again when she swung back towards him.

            “Do you want a turn?”

            “Me? No thanks, sweetheart.”

            She pouted as she spun back into him. “Then why did you want a tire swing?”

            As he gave her another shove, his smile fell. He’d wanted to fix this thing his mother used to love. To bring a small piece of her back.

            A fat raindrop landed on Jaime’s arm, and he looked up to see a thousand more charging after it. Jaime blinked furiously when a drop smacked into his eye, then he looked back down at the sound of Sansa laughing. “What, you not a fan of the rain?” she asked.

            Jaime reached for the rope, stilling her so that she sat suspended in front of him. “Not particularly.” As he said it, the shower grew into a downpour, and he growled his displeasure. “Come on and get down from there.”

            Sansa held out an arm, her palm flat to the sky. “I love it,” she sighed happily. Hair plastered to her forehead.

            “You’re crazy,” he said, the bitterness fading from his voice. With his hand controlling the swing, he spun her around.

            Sansa grinned—she pressed her thighs tighter around the rope and stuck both arms out to the side. “I don’t care,” she answered. “It’s just a little rain, Jaime. Live a little.”

            Jaime grinned back like an idiot, then he spun her faster and faster until she shrieked and jerked forward for something to hold on to. Sansa’s arms curled around his neck as the tire swing stilled. Jaime kept a steady hand curled around her waist, then without thinking, he pushed back the dripping hair from her face. Her breathing hitched when his fingers brushed her cheekbone. The swing gave her a few inches of height above him, and she glanced down at Jaime as his hand fell away. “You don’t have to stop,” she said. Her voice was soft through the thundering rain.

            Jaime couldn’t say who moved closer—if it was Jaime drawing her towards him, if it was Sansa leaning in from atop the tire. She hooked her legs over his bare shoulders as Jaime’s hands smoothed down to hold her hips. He could feel the press of her ankles into his spine, the slick warmth of her arms wrapped around his neck.

            Her lips hovered above his. Rain drenched them—it dripped down her face, down his, sliding between them.

            A raindrop fell from her top lip to his bottom one.

            _You don’t care._ His father’s voice was louder now. Deafening. _You shouldn’t. Remember the plan, Jaime. Don’t disappoint me again._

            “You should go,” Jaime muttered against her mouth. Guilt churned in his stomach—guilt at knowing he’d stepped too close, guilt at knowing he’d hurt her again. He let go and stepped back. She gazed at him from her perch like a drenched little bird.

            “Why?” Her fingers clung desperately to the slick rope. Water trickled down her dark shorts, her shining thighs, the tips of her curled toes. The splatter of raindrops was lighter now on his shoulders. It would stop soon enough.

            “Because I heard a car pull up,” he said. At Sansa’s skeptical look, Jaime ducked his head. She knew he was lying, but she decided not to push it. Sansa sighed and stepped gracefully down from the tire swing. When her feet hit the sopping ground, it sank softly beneath her soles. 

            “Thanks for entertaining me,” she said quietly.

            He nodded. “See you around, Sansa.”

            She nodded back, then made her way across the street. Mud splattered up the backs of her legs as she walked, but she didn’t stop to wipe it off before shutting herself inside.

            Jaime ran a finger down the wet, rubber curve of the tire. If she _was_ hurt, she hid it easily. It was smart, really—keeping these moments that kept happening between them behind the paned glass of pretense. Last night he had just been a man telling a neighborhood girl a story about their town. Today, in the rain, she had just been a girl helping out a friend. Jaime was grateful she didn’t show her anger or hurt. He didn’t think he could handle her crying. That might be just enough to make Jaime forget his father’s plan entirely.

 

* * *

 

            Winterfell was freezing to her soaking wet body, but Sansa didn’t bother changing before she clumsily pulled the telephone from the wall and cradled it to her ear. She didn’t have a dry spot left on her clothes, so she refused to let the tears building behind her lashes fall. She wouldn’t be able to dry them off. She did not want to cry over Jaime Lannister again.

            Sansa dialed Margaery’s number from heart. As it rung, Sansa closed her eyes and imagined herself back on that tire swing with Jaime holding her close. She had been the one to try and kiss him this time, and again he was the one to push her away.

            _He thinks I’m a stupid little girl_ , she thought. The phone trilled on. _A stupid high school girl who isn’t worth his time._ It confused her to the point of madness, though—why would he ask her to help? Why did he catch her as she dropped from the twisting magnolia, why had he wrapped his arm around her and held her close when the rain started? Why had he waited so long to push her away?

            “It is a _Sunday_ morning,” Olenna’s voice snapped on the other end. “And I will not tolerate phone calls before eleven o’clock—”

            “Ms. Tyrell?” Margaery’s grandmother fell quiet with an apologetic huff.

            “Sorry, Sansa dear. I didn’t realize it was you.”

            “Right. Sorry to bother you, but would you mind putting Margaery on the phone?”

            “She’s not here,” said Olenna stiffly. Under her breath she muttered, “Spiteful girl, leaving me alone to answer the phone on a Sunday morning…”

            Sansa bit her lip. “Thanks anyway, Ms. Tyrell. Sorry to bother you.” She hung up after exchanging goodbyes, then sighed. She _had_ to talk to someone about Jaime, even if it meant Margaery getting mad at her for spending more time with him. She had to find out what she was doing wrong.

            As Sansa put back the phone, a realization popped into her head—Dany was good with boys, wasn’t she? Margaery always said that the Targaryen girl had been with more guys than anyone else in King’s Landing. Obviously Sansa couldn’t say what boy she needed advice on, but maybe Dany could help…

            Sansa quickly looked through her mother’s leather-bound address book, but she found no listing for either Dany or her brother. Sansa ran to the window and saw that the clouds had cleared, and the sun was already busy drying out the ground after the downpour. With the air still cool from the rain, it would be perfect weather to walk down to Flea Bottom.

            Sansa pulled on her tennis shoes before leaving the house.

 

            Arya had once told her that the Targaryeans lived three trailers down from Gendry. She stood outside the black, tiny box that Dany called home and raised her knuckles to the metal door. Before they made contact, voices inside caused her to pause. It sounded like shouting. Sansa pressed her ear to the door.

            “Stop that! Viserys, stop!” a girl screamed. It was unmistakably Dany.

            Something clattered against a surface, maybe a wall. “If I tell you to pack a suitcase, sweet sister, then I shouldn’t have to do it for you.” This one Sansa recognized as Viserys from the few times she’d seen him working at the gas station.

            Another object flew against the wall. “You can’t make me go!” Dany wailed. Flesh slapped across flesh, then a sob flew from the girl’s throat. Sansa desperately wanted to pull away and run back to Winterfell, but she wanted to know what the siblings were fighting about.

            “If Littlefinger wants to pay me for you, then you’ll shut your mouth and do as you’re told,” Viserys snapped. There was a quiet pause, then a manic laugh from the brother. “You’re already a whore, Dany. If Littlefinger wants to make it official, then I won’t stop him.”

            Sansa stepped away from the door. _Whores? Littlefinger?_ She guessed it was a nickname, but not one she’d ever heard before. Whatever it was they were going on about, Sansa knew it wasn’t her place to barge in or the time to ask for boy advice. Sansa tried the doorknob just in case. It was locked.

            _I’ll ask Margaery_ , Sansa thought as she turned back towards the road leading out. _She has to know what Viserys was talking about, then we can find Dany and help her._

**Sunday June 26 – Sunday July 3, 1977**

It turned out that Margaery had no idea who or what Littlefinger was. Sansa decided to find Dany anyway just in case something truly bad was going on, but she couldn’t find the girl anywhere. With school over, there was only the trailer park and town left to search for her. Sansa, Margaery, and even Arya asked around and looked for her, but there was no sign of either of the Targaryen siblings. According to the gas station manager, Viserys had collected his last paycheck, and he hadn’t been seen since.  

            One week later, Sansa and Arya walked up to the old Targaryen trailer to see if anyone would open the door today. But this time, only a dusty, red-lettered eviction notice greeted them. When Arya kicked at the door, it swung open in welcome. The bare bones of a filthy trailer stared back at them.

            Daenerys Targaryen was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely loved writing *that* scene, so I hope ya'll like it too :)


	7. Fireworks

****

**Monday July 4, 1977**

            Guests littered the backyard of the Tyrell manor, some standing beneath the wash of charcoal smoke from Mace Tyrell’s barbeque, others roaming the lush gardens that framed the field of brilliant, summer green grass. A dusty lilac sky stretched out in all directions, and an orange sun hung low above the western tree line. In another half hour, purple would fade to midnight blue and fireworks would spray up against the stars. The Tyrells loved to host a party, and the Fourth of July was no exception.

            Sansa gripped tightly to her slippery bottle of cola as she wandered away from the silver bucket of chipped ice and freezing cold drinks. Her star-speckled dress blew against her thighs, and Sansa picked uncomfortably at the neck scarf her mother had insisted she wear. “It’s patriotic,” Catelyn had informed her as tied the silk American flag around Sansa’s throat.

            She spotted Margaery down by a stone fountain shaped like a bouquet of roses and pushed past some Greyjoy businessmen to get to her friend. As Sansa reached out to put a hand on Margaery’s shoulder, she noticed the back of a dark-haired man standing beside Margaery, his hand on her back just a little too low to be friendly.

            Sansa cleared her throat, and both her friend and the man turned around. Oberyn Martell glanced down at her. He was a tall man, with olive skin and black curls touched with strands of grey. His dark eyes glinted as he took her in, then a playful smile found his lips.

            “Sansa, this is Oberyn.” Margaery said. Nerves tainted her voice, and she looked between them cautiously.

            “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sansa,” he said in a low rumble with just a hint of a Spanish accent. The Martells had settled in Westeros around the time of the other Houses, but their ties to Europe remained stronger than the rest. Many Martells like Oberyn often grew up in their ancestral home somewhere in the south of Spain before returning to Virginia.

            Oberyn picked up her and brushed her lips against the back.

            Sansa raised her brows. “Handsome and chivalrous,” she mused. “I can see why Margaery likes you.”

            “As I’m sure you can understand why I have become so enraptured with her. You and Margaery have been friends for quite some time, have you not?”

            Margaery smiled. “Since before we could walk.”

            “ _Ah_ ,” Oberyn breathed out. “So perhaps, Sansa, you are glad for someone else to share the burden of satisfying Ms. Tyrell’s hearty appetite for attention?”

            “Oberyn!” Margaery smacked him lightly on the arm, but from her wicked smile, Sansa could tell her friend was pleased.

            “I am glad,” Sansa said truthfully. “You two seem very happy together.”

            At the sound of footsteps, Sansa looked over her shoulder to see Mace Tyrell waddling towards them with his rose-embroidered apron flapping around his knees. Like the rest of him, the apron featured quite a few streaks of charcoal. Margaery circled around to stand by Sansa as her father approached.

            “Mr. Tyrell,” Oberyn said pleasantly. He grasped Mace’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “What a wonderful party—the burgers are exquisite.”

            Mace beamed. “And how’s business going?”

            “Beautifully. Spanish wines are more popular than ever thanks to our new partnership with Rose Communications.” 

            Margaery leaned into Sansa’s ear. “Oberyn owns vineyards all across the south of Spain,” she whispered.    “My father’s been advertising his wines here in the States.”

            So Oberyn was already trying to woo Margaery’s father even before they were officially dating. _Smart man_ , Sansa thought.

            “Margaery, darling, why don’t you show Mr. Martell around the gardens?” Mace said in that sudden, breathless way of his.

            Margaery nodded politely. “Of course, father.” She linked her arm through Oberyn’s. “I’m sure Mr. Martell would be delighted to see all your hard work.”

            She led Oberyn off to the tiny gate that entered into a winding hedge maze, and Mace mumbled something about tending to the grill. That left Sansa alone to sip her coke, and as she drank to sweet drink, she gazed around the yard. Her siblings had monopolized the cooler of red, white, and blue popsicles. Arya held a popsicle to Rickon’s mouth—it had turned an alarming shade of blue. Through the open sliding door, Sansa could see her parents in the kitchen talking with Cersei and Tywin Lannister. Cold fear trickled down Sansa’s neck at the sight. She knew what kind of monster Tywin was now, and her parents had no idea.

            Sansa turned sharply away from the house. Some of the girls from school lounged in white wooden chairs, their skirts riding up around their somehow already tanned legs. Asha perched on the arm of Meera’s seat, and her hand kept drifting down to accidently brush Meera’s thigh. The boys were nowhere to be seen, but Sansa guessed they were off in the woods somewhere with a case of beer. They’d return by the time the fireworks started.

            After setting her cola aside, Sansa began walking towards her siblings when a figure suddenly lurched into her path. Joffrey sneered down at her.

            “Going somewhere?” he asked.

            “No.”

            He stepped closer. “Good.” His breath washed over her, bitter like beer. “I think we should spend more time together, you and I.” He reached out to trail his fingers down her arm, and Sansa shuddered. “You’re to be my debutante, after all.” Joffrey fingered her scarf, and in one quick tug, he had clenched in his fist.

            “Hey!” Sansa cried. She tried to take it back, but Joffrey held it out of reach.

            “Now, now, Sansa,” Joffrey taunted. “Be a good girl and say please.”

            Sansa’s cheeks burned hot. “Give it back, Joffrey.”

            Joffrey dangled the scarf in front of Sansa’s eyes. “No,” he sneered. “I don’t think I will.”

            Out of nowhere, the scarf was suddenly ripped away. Jaime stood beside them. He stared down at Joffrey with cool loathing. “I hear there’s a puppy inside,” Jaime told him. “Why don’t you go try to torment it instead?” Joffrey’s lips were pressed together, and his cheeks bulged in rage. After a tense moment, Joffrey stormed off towards the drinks bucket.

            Jaime held the scarf out, and Sansa gratefully pushed it into her dress pocket. “Thank you,” she muttered. She kept her gaze on his jaw, the golden tendrils brushing against it. “But Margaery doesn’t have a puppy.”

            He chuckled. “I know. I said it to get him away from you.” _Oh._ She chanced a look up into his eyes and found him studying her. Jaime broke away when she caught him looking, and his arm moved out from behind his back. _The Scarlett Letter_ was in his hand. “You left this in the garage,” he said, before handing it to her.

            Sansa hugged the book to her chest. “Hopefully I’m not bored enough to read it again,” she said lightly.

            “It’s a long summer, sweetheart.” There was no smirk, no arrogantly playful glint in his eyes. He just sounded…tired. _Of me?_ She glanced at his lips and wondered if he remembered the morning they’d almost kissed last month. It had been raining. She had been soaked, he had been flush against her with his arms around her waist and her legs hooked over his broad shoulders. Sometimes during the quick, summer storms, Sansa closed her eyes and tried to picture herself back on that tire swing. She wondered if he did the same.

            The thought came as quickly as it had come when Jaime touched her lightly on the arm, coaxing her to turn to the side. “Look,” he said quietly. Joffrey lingered on the edge of the yard, a beer to his fat lips as he sulked alone by the stone-circled firepit. Wylla tried to approach him with a plate of burgers. Joffrey flicked a bottlecap at her, and she went scampering off. “I believe we’ve made my nephew quite miserable.”

            “Good. It’ll be the highlight of the night.”

            “Not the fireworks?”

            “I’ve seen quite enough of those over the years.”

            They turned back towards each other. “I don’t know, I never seem to get over them,” Jaime said. He tilted his head back, and Sansa did the same. The sky was a pretty shade of violet now, and creamy wisps of clouds drifted lazily above their heads. “I’ve always loved the way fire could just…explode in the sky like that.”

            Sansa looked back to him, and she smiled at the way his face turned upward with so much wonder. “I remember you, you know. From the Fourth of July.”

            He dragged his gaze away from the sky. “You do?”

            She nodded. “I remember a party just like this one. At first, I thought I was remembering fireflies, but they were fireworks. Little bursts of gold raining down into the night.”

            “Sounds like a pretty picture.”

            “It must have been before…I was a kid, you looked…”

            “Less old?”

            “Younger,” she corrected with a smile. “More innocent.”

            Jaime smirked. “Sweetheart, I’ve never been innocent.”

            Sansa shook her head slightly in laughter. “I remember meeting you,” she said, ignoring his comment. “But I don’t remember what we talked about.”

            A distant look crossed over Jaime’s face. “I do.” He glanced around, then moved over to sit on a carved stone bench. Sansa joined him and set her book aside. Their knees just barely brushed together. “It was the summer of ’66.”

 

* * *

 

**Monday July 4, 1966**

The fireworks still burst overhead, but Jaime’s neck had begun to ache from looking up at the sky for so long. He found an open seat at the roaring fire pit and gladly lowered himself down. A little girl with hair the color of fire sat across from him, her bare feet kicking the rough stone. She watched the fire happily, smiling when the little twigs she threw in disappeared in the hungry flames.

            “Hello,” she said in a small voice. She glanced up at Jaime with a smile. “Who are you?”

            “Jaime Lannister,” he told her. He tried to match her smile, but the dawning realization of who she was sent a ripple of sadness through him. The red hair was unmistakable, the Tully-blue, doll-like eyes even more so. He’d never met Sansa Stark before, but his father made sure they all knew who she was. _The key to the Stark fortune_.

      Sansa frowned and looked over to the house. The rest of his golden-haired family stood on the back porch watching the fireworks. “Why aren’t you with them?” she asked bluntly.

      Jaime sighed. “Because they hurt people.”

      “You?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “With they hurt me?” She asked, tossing a stick into the fire. “Will you hurt me?”

      Jaime stiffened at her words, so innocent on her lips, so chilling in his ears. _Yes,_ he thought sadly. _Someday my family will want to hurt you._ He swallowed down the taste of ash and guilt, then stood up. Shadows from the flames danced across her pale, round face. “I hope you never have to find out,” he whispered, his voice so low he didn’t think she’d heard. But when her icy blue eyes snapped up to meet his, a smile pinched her cheeks.

      “Goodbye, Jaime Lannister,” she said politely, like a little well-trained bird. “I hope they never hurt you too.”

      A boy of sixteen came bounding over and plopped down by Sansa’s side. His curls were a little darker than the girl’s, but he had the same blue eyes. “Goodbye,” Jaime muttered as he stepped away.

 

**Monday July 4, 1977**

“It was the summer of ’66,” Jaime told her. He glanced down at where their legs touched, but he didn’t pull away. “Another Tyrell Fourth of July party. You only said a few words to me before a boy came over and took your attention all away.”

      “Robb.”

      “He’s your older brother?”

      “Was.”

      Jaime’s gaze snapped up. Sansa looked off into some middle distance. “What happened to him?” Jaime asked softly.

      “He died over there. In Vietnam,” she whispered. “A lot of the boys I used to play with went there. The ones that hadn’t gone away to college like Loras.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and a tear went rolling down her cheek. Without thinking, without looking around to see who was watching, Jaime brushed it away with his thumb. She leaned into his touch before it fell away.

      “I’m sorry,” Jaime murmured.

      She gave a tiny nod. “Robb was so brave. He didn’t cry even when mama drove him over to the army office. The rest of us did all the crying,” she said with a shaky laugh.

      “Was he drafted?”

      “No. He and his best friend Theon enlisted the day Robb turned 19. Mama was furious, of course. Robb was never supposed to exist in the first place, and there he was, signing up to fight in that horrible jungle.”

      “What do you mean?”

      Sansa dragged the back of her hand across her nose. “My mother had him when she was sixteen. Before she married my dad.” Jaime’s brows pulled together in surprise. He _had_ always wondered how the Tully woman had so many children so young, but he hadn’t heard that she’d only been a girl when she had the first one. “She used to say Robb was her best friend.” Her hand clutched the bench between him. Jaime covered it with his own, and she looked up at the touch. “Jaime,” she began, her gaze flicking over his face. “I—”

      “Brother!”

      Jaime’s hand jerked away. “Tyrion?”

      His brother sauntered up to the bench with a toothy grin spread over his broad face. “Good to see you too,” Tyrion called back. “And who might this be?” he said to Sansa.

      “Sansa Stark,” Jaime said through his teeth—they both knew full well that his brother knew _exactly_ who she was. “Meet my younger brother, Tyrion.”

      “Hello,” she said with a polite smile. Then she turned back to Jaime. “I better go—Rickon has blue popsicle all over his shirt.”

      As Sansa grabbed her book and scurried off towards the main part of the yard, Jaime gave his brother a loathing look. “Tyrion,” he drawled.

      “Jaime,” Tyrion retorted with all the pomp he could apparently muster. He gazed at Sansa now fighting with her sister with something akin to a smile. “What on Earth are you doing?”

      “I could ask the same of you. You haven’t been to one of Mace’s parties since…when? Before the sixties?”

      Tyrion put on a wounded look. “You very well know that our loving father despised having me out in public. It’s not _my_ fault that everyone else thinks me some vile creature.”

      “They think that because you moved to California and declared yourself a hippie, Tyrion! Not because you’re a dwarf.”

      His brother shrugged. “That was a long time ago. I’ve left that all behind now.”

      “Have you?” Jaime gave him a pointed look. “Why are you back in Westeros?”

      A sly smile cracked over his brother’s face. “The debutante ball, of course. I thought I might find myself a pretty young wife.”

      Jaime snorted—the last thing Tyrion had ever wanted was a wife. “Might I suggest Margaery Tyrell, then? I hear she’ll make some lucky man a lovely wife.”

      “I lovely mouth around a lucky man’s cock, maybe.”

      “Careful, brother,” Jaime warned.

      Tyrion was still busy staring at the party guests. Jaime followed his eyeline to the house where their father stood with Ned Stark. “Tywin asked me to come back,” Tyrion said in a low voice. “He believes that the plan may be compromised before the ball.”

      _By me?_ “By who?” Jaime asked carefully.

“Cersei, of course.” Tyrion finally looked up at him. “He thinks our sister’s crazy enough to ruin everything.”

      Jaime blinked, surprised. “Cersei?” Out of anyone who might ruin their father’s plan, Jaime would never have guessed his twin. Himself for caring too much, Joffrey for scaring the girl beyond reach…but Cersei? “Why?”

      “Because she loves you, of course.” Tyrion’s eyes were sharp on Jaime’s. “Cersei fears that you’ve caught feelings for the Stark girl. If she believes those fears to be true, Cersei will get the girl out of the way—for good. Our father’s plan will be for naught without securing Sansa alive.”

      “And what am I supposed to do about this?” Jaime snapped, more from fear than anger at his brother’s presumptions. He always knew Cersei was a jealous, hatful woman, but she wouldn’t do anything as stupid as murdering Sansa. _Would she?_

Tyrion pressed his lips together. “You must remind Cersei that you’re only pretending to care for the Stark girl. Give Cersei what she most desperately wants.”

      “And what’s that?”

      Tyrion sighed. “You.”

 

      That night, Jaime found his sister beneath a pile of silk sheets, her hair sprayed out loose and golden around her, her body bare to the touch. He kissed her softly until she woke, then without hesitation, Cersei drew him to her beneath the covers. It didn’t take much work after that—Cersei had always led during sex, and tonight Jaime followed as willingly as he could force his body to be. As Jaime thrust into her, he buried his face into her sweet-smelling neck. In the dark, in the throw of skin and hair and sweat, the woman beneath him could be anyone.

      In the dark, she could be the pale, lovely girl that clung to Jaime in his most depraved of dreams.  

 

* * *

 

**Friday July 15, 1977**

            “Sansa, hold _still_ ,” Catelyn said through gritted teeth. She plucked a pin from her lips and pressed it in near a seam along Sansa’s hip.

            “Hey—that hurts!” She glanced down to see her mother’s eyes light up in mild amusement.

            “It wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t move,” Catelyn informed her.

            Sansa rolled her eyes and tried to remain still as her mother worked on some last minute alterations to the gown. They were both on edge—the debutante ball was tomorrow, Winterfell’s air conditioning had sputtered out, and the midnight blue gown was suddenly too short to be called fashionable. At least that’s what Margaery declared upon seeing Sansa in it for the first time last night.

            As her mother kneeled on the bedroom carpet fiddling with the hem, Sansa swiped a hand across the back of her neck. Even with the window open, it was blisteringly hot.

            “Honey, you need to step out of it for a moment,” he mother said with a sigh. “I can’t get this side panel open with you fidgeting like that.”

            “I’m not—” Sansa pressed her lips together at her mother’s exasperated, sweating face. “Can’t you, you know, leave while I change?” She had on only a pair of black panties and a matching, terribly uncomfortable strapless bra.

            The lines on her mother’s forehead deepened. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sansa.”

            “Fine.” Sansa turned to let her mother undo the long line of silk buttons. She stepped out of the poufy heap, crossed her arms against her chest, and edged over to the window. A breeze wafted through. She inched closer. Her bedroom window faced the street, and from this high up she could see all the way to the bridge curving over the lazy Blackwater, all the way to the trees that hid the old Targaryen manor. Finally, Sansa peered out at Casterly Rock.

            She took a sharp breath, glanced over her shoulder to see her mother distracted with the gown, then back to Lannister’s front porch. Jaime sat where he always did, lounging on the steps without an apparent care in the world. He wore sunglasses and had a newspaper in one hand, a pen between his teeth. His face was screwed up in some kind of childish frustration. Sansa had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. The wind picked up, fanning her hair back over her shoulders. Jaime’s head tilted slightly at the cool breeze, but she couldn’t tell if he was watching her. Sansa looked down at herself, at her pale arms crossed in front of her low-cut bra, at the hint of black between her legs. Slowly, with some sudden surge of confidence, Sansa began to lower arms from where they guarded her chest.

            “Sansa.”

            She spun around at her mother’s voice and quickly assumed a bored expression. “Is the dress done?”

            “Yes, now step away from that window before someone sees you,” she chided. She held out the gown for Sansa to try on again. “I know it’s hot in here, but for God’s sake you don’t need to let the neighbors know.”

 

* * *

 

            Jaime chanced another peek at the upstairs window across the street, but Sansa was gone. As he grabbed his crossword and headed back inside, an unsettled feeling grew in his stomach. He knew that Sansa had seen him, but had she wanted him to? _Don’t be ridiculous_ , a voice snapped in his mind. _You’re no better than a pimply, high school Peeping Tom._

            He tried to shake the image from his mind, but Sansa’s pale, small breasts and the soft curve of her hips refused to dissipate so easily. As Jaime pressed the door closed behind him, Cersei came striding towards him in a fit of clomping heels and billowy fabric.

            “Cersei,” Jaime drawled. _Just the person to make me forget all about the girl in the window._ “You look lovely.”

            His sister ignored his words—there was rage etched into her golden face, and resentment too. “Father’s looking for you,” she said curtly. “He’s in the library.”

            “Family meeting?” Jaime guessed. He was surprised when she nodded. They took off down the hall. When Jaime reached the carved wooden door, Cersei paused. “Aren’t you coming in?” He asked, pushing it open.

            “No,” she said stiffly. She glanced away, clearly hurt. “Apparently I’m better suited to looking after the kids. We have a ball to get ready for, anyway.” She swept away back down the hall.

            Bookshelves stretched up to ceiling of the Lannister library, and heavy velvet curtains suffocated the room like a cave. Tywin, Tyrion, and Joffrey sat back in plush leather armchairs—his father with a mild look of irritation, his brother inspecting one of the shelves, his son biting his stubby nails. Jaime settled into an armchair by the window. He drummed his fingers on his knees and waited for someone to break the stiff silence.

            “Good of you to join us, Jaime,” said Tywin dryly.

            “My apologizes. I was doing a crossword.”

            Tyrion chuckled. Joffrey rolled his eyes.

            “As you know,” Tywin continued on as if Jaime hadn’t interrupted, “Baelish’s debutante ball starts at six tomorrow night. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to go over the plan with you three.”

            “What about mother?” Joffrey asked. He didn’t look up from the task of picking at his cuticles.

            Tywin grimaced. “Your mother will look after Tommen and Myrcella. I won’t risk them getting involved. Now Joffrey, tell me your role tomorrow night.”

            Joffrey let out a long, dramatic sigh. “I’ll meet the Stark bitch—”

            “Sansa,” Tywin corrected.

            Joffrey rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet _Sansa_ at the top of the stairs and escort her into the ball. I’ll…dance with her until the debutante dance is over.”

            “Good,” Tywin said, nodding. “And after your first dance?”

            “I’ll keep an eye on the other Stark brats,” Joffrey muttered.

            “I’d advise keeping a close watch on the other girl, Arya,” Jaime told him. “If any of the Stark children are going to pose problems, it’ll be that one. She’s more rebellious than the others.”

            “That little bitch doesn’t scare me,” Joffrey sneered.

            “She should,” Tyrion mused, meeting Joffrey’s eye. “Apparently Arya once threatened to shive a boy for landing her in detention.”

            “And how do you know this?” Jaime asked, his brows raised.

            Tyrion waved him off. “Friends in high places, brother.”

            “Enough,” Tywin snapped. “Arya’s…attitude is exactly the reason we’ve chosen to use Sansa instead. Any further discussion on the matter is simply tedious.” Tyrion pretended to look affronted. Joffrey stuck his finger back between his teeth. “Now Tyrion, remind me of your role.”

            “I shall keep my dear sister thoroughly supplied with wine,” Tyrion answered in that determinedly serious, deep voice of his. “And when the wine runs out, I shall demand that Baelish bring us some more.” He looked up at their father. “That’s the gist of it, anyways.”

            Tywin’s jaw hardened. “I will not have Cersei’s…emotions take control of the night,” he said coolly. “Keep your sister away from Sansa, and for God’s sake do not allow her to frighten the girl into leaving prematurely.” His father turned to Jaime and cocked one brow.

            Jaime ran his tongue over his teeth and stared at a bronze stud poking out from the arm of his chair. “An hour or so into the ball, I will ask Sansa for a dance. After that we will…move outside to the parking lot beside the kitchens. I’ll take her back to my car, then…” Jaime glanced up. He shifted under his father’s unwavering gaze, Tyrion’s sad one. Joffrey, to his credit, looked bored out of his mind. “Then I’ll drive Sansa to the cottage.”

            “And once she’s safely locked away?” Tywin asked simply.

            Jaime pressed the bronze stud back into the soft leather. “I’ll make the call.”

            Tywin nodded, pleased. A rare hint of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “How unfortunate,” he said lightly. “That Winterfell will suffer a deadly gas leak in a few months’ time. Once Sansa Stark is informed of this tragic, impending accident, she will have no choice but to wed her high school sweetheart,” he said, eyeing Joffrey. “We will be powerless to stop the leak, of course.”

            Joffrey nodded sullenly. 

            It was like a punch to the gut—blood drained from Jaime’s face, and he looked down to see his hand trembling. Jaime met his brother’s eyes, and he could see Tyrion wrestling with their father’s words. “Father,” Tyrion said with a frown. “Surely it’s enough to threaten Sansa with a gas leak? You don’t actually have to…” He lifted his hands. _Ka-boom._

“And risk the Stark fortune and business ties falling to one of the brothers, or the sister? No, I don’t think so,” Tywin snapped.

            “This was never the plan,” Jaime growled. He stood, glaring down at his father. “You didn’t say we’d be killing all of them—Ned, Catelyn, the children…

            “Do you expect me to let them live?” Tywin answered, his voice eerily calm. Even seated, he seemed to loom over Jaime, forcing Jaime to sink back into his armchair. “The Starks have threatened our family’s business for decades—”

            “You mean your cocaine factories,” Jaime spat.

            Tywin ignored him. “And now Ned Stark seeks to discredit my grandson and his siblings from inheriting the business.”

            Joffrey’s mouth popped open, but Tywin shushed him with one look.

            “It will be safer for all of us if they are taken care of. Sansa is the key to Stark Industries and its substantial fortune, not to mention control over the only supply lines running this far south in the country. I will not risk keeping the rest alive. Do you understand, Jaime?”

            “Sansa will never marry that boy,” Jaime hissed, glancing at the boy.

            Tywin calmly folded in hands in his lap. “Sansa will do anything to keep her family safe—including marrying Joffrey.”

            “And after that?”

            “If we are lucky, the girl will already be pregnant. Her family will tragically perish, and Sansa will have no one except the baby inside her.”

            “Father.” Tyrion’s eyes widened on their father. “You cannot force the girl.”

            “She will not be _forced_ , Tyrion,” Tywin said through his teeth. “Sansa will be presented with her options—wedding and bedding Joffrey, or allowing her family to die. I believe we all know what she will choose.”

            “A choice that means nothing!” Jaime shouted. Anger surged through his veins—he tried to steady his hands. They jerked anyway. He jumped to his feet and swept his hand over a tray of whiskey glasses perched on the deep windowsill. Glass shattered. No one moved. Dark liquid crept slowly towards the rug.

            “Joffrey, get out,” Tywin snapped. Joffrey started to protest, but when Tywin tilted his head, the boy went scurrying out. The door slammed shut behind him. “Need I remind you what happened last time you disobeyed me?” His father called out, clear and chilling. :ike cold fingers stretching through the library, curling around Jaime’s throat.

            Jaime whipped around. His boot crunched sickeningly against the spray of crystal. “What?” he breathed out.

            Tywin regarded him coolly. “I told you to stay out of the Targaryen manor, but you disobeyed me. I told you to watch, but not to get involved.” His father rose, and his shadow slinked across the floor, tall and dark and menacing. “Who do you think called the sheriff?”

            Jaime stumbled back—his hips smacked against the windowsill, his hand reached out to steady himself. A shard of glass slid into his palm with a stab of pain, and Jaime jerked away, cursing. “That was you?” he asked stupidly. He glanced at Tyrion—even his brother looked shocked. “Why?” Jaime croaked.

            Tywin stepped towards him. “Because you needed to learn a lesson,” he answered. “Because you will do what I say, or I will make sure your sentence is much longer than a decade this time. Is that clear?”

            Jaime couldn’t think—he couldn’t breathe. His hand screamed in pain. All Jaime could do was nod. “Yes,” he mumbled. He averted his father’s gaze and stormed away.

            Jaime made for the front door, but as his blood-slickened hand found the handle, a touch on his shoulder jerked him away. “Cersei,” he whispered, suddenly confused. “What—”

            Her fingers slid down to his wrist, and she held it up between them. A gash swept through his palm, red and angry. Blood smeared the surrounding skin. Cersei _tsked._ Her eyes drifted up to meet Jaime’s, and she glanced at his lips.

            “Cersei, not n—” he tried again.

            A slap cut the words from his tongue. She dropped his hand. Disgust curled her lip. “I saw you,” she seethed. “I saw you staring at her window.”

            “What?” he said, before a breath of realization flowed through his lips. The picture of Sansa standing nearly naked in her bedroom window flooded his brain. Jaime shook his head, trying to clear the picture away. “I have no fucking idea what you’re on about,” he told her.

            “Don’t lie to me,” she bit back. A strangled sound caught in her throat. “Don’t you lie to me, Jaime,” she whispered. Cersei straightened and pushed back her feathered, golden hair. “I wonder…” she drawled with an air of unsteady composure, “Who would Ned Stark punish more? His perfect little daughter for standing naked in her window, or the man watching her?”

            “You wouldn’t dare tell Stark,” Jaime snapped. He leaned his head back against the door, and a bubble of angry laughter escaped his throat. “You wouldn’t dare ruin father’s plan.”

            Cersei slid closer. She smoothed her hands over Jaime’s chest, curled her fingers around his neck. There was no affection in her touch. Just possession and anger churning beneath the golden surface. “You think I care what father thinks?” she asked, snipping at his jaw. “He thinks me a mad woman who can’t be trusted.”

            Jaime grasped her waist, holding her at a distance. “You are a mad woman,” he snarled.

            “I’m not going to tell Ned Stark what I saw,” she whispered against Jaime’s neck. “But maybe I should pay his daughter a visit at the ball tomorrow. That is, if Tyrion lets me out if his sight.” She laughed. 

            Jaime shoved her away. “You won’t hurt her,” he growled.

            Cersei pouted. “And you won’t? I may not have been invited to the little family meeting, but I know what’s going on. Sansa will hate you when she finds out what we’re doing. Poor Jaime,” she teased, dragging a finger down his chest. Jaime slapped her hand away, and she chuckled darkly. “Forced to break the bitch’s cold heart.”

            Jaime grabbed Cersei’s arm and spun them around. “Shut up,” he growled. He pressed her up against the door, his forearm against her throat. Cersei gasped for air, but the crazed smile never left her face. “If you hurt her, there will be consequences,” he whispered into his twin’s ear. Jaime smirked against her golden hair, teasing her with his lips just enough to make Cersei struggle against his hold.

            “Consequences?” Cersei choked out. “A big—word—for a—coward.”

            With a snarl, Jaime let go. Cersei dropped to the floor, hacking and coughing on her hands and knees. Jaime reached over and pulled open the door. He flew down the front steps and marched into the garage. 

            Jaime slipped into his Mustang, slammed the door, then fumbled for his cigarettes as he slammed his foot against the gas pedal. Dust billowed up as he spun out into the street. He looked up at Winterfell through the cloud. Red hair glimmered even through the glass, and her head snapped towards the window at the sound of his engine below.

            Sansa smiled.

            The cigarette in Jaime’s hand fell, rolling forgotten across the passenger seat. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The wind pushed back his hair, brushing it against his forehead, stinging his eyes. He nodded, just barely, and smiled back.

            She was mouthing something now, but Jaime shook his head. _What’s she saying?_ Sansa rolled her eyes with an amused, tight-lipped smile.

            Sansa mouthed the word twice more— _tomorrow?_ She pointed to herself, then to Jaime down on the street. Then she stood and twirled, pretending, Jaime thought, to dance.

            He laughed, then his good friend guilt settled uncomfortably in his stomach. “Tomorrow,” he called out. Sansa grinned, then looked back into her bedroom. After a moment, she disappeared without another look back.

            _Tomorrow._

            He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Didn’t know what would happen to the pretty girl in the window, didn’t know what he would do to her. What he _could_ do to her. No matter what Jaime chose, he would be pushing one side of himself away forever. His family, or his hope.

            He dreaded tomorrow.

           

* * *

 

            Sansa and Margaery sat in Highgarden’s sunroom sipping lemonade from skinny glasses and chatting about the ball tomorrow. Even though she was forced to attend with Joffrey, Sansa was excited—all her life she’d dreamed of being a debutante, of wearing the gown and twirling around on some grand dancefloor. Once Joffrey escorted her down the sweeping staircase and they performed the opening dance with all the other pairs, she would be free. Tomorrow would be amazing. She just knew it.

            Ice clinked as Margaery set her glass down on an end table. “Guess what?”

            “What?” Sansa asked around her pastel, paper straw.

            “Oberyn’s going to ask my father for my hand tomorrow.”

            Sansa sputtered, spewing lemonade down her chin. She wiped her mouth and set the glass aside. “What? Really?”

            “Really.” Margaery twisted her hands into her suede miniskirt, a nervous smile on her lips. “He told me last night—and oh, darling, I’m just so scared!”

            “Scared?” Sansa sat up straighter. “Why?”

            “It’s just…what if my father says no?”

            “Then you’ll just have to run off together.”

            Margaery laughed. “Seriously, though. I’m afraid that it’s all going to go away. This…happiness. I honestly never thought Oberyn really wanted to date me, let alone marry me.” She sighed and met Sansa’s eyes. “I guess it really can work out,” she said softly.

            “A relationship?”

            “Well, yes, but one between a man like Oberyn and a girl like me. I think,” she said with a breath, “you should see what could happen with Jaime.”

            “Jaime?” Her cheeks grew hot, and Margaery rolled her eyes.

            “Oh, don’t pretend you’re not still crushing over him,” Margaery teased. “I know how much you like him, even if you act like you don’t. Forget all about Joffrey—it’s Jaime you need to make a move on.”

            Sansa let out a nervous breath of laughter. “Make a move? I’m not you, Marg…I can’t just drag him into my father’s office during a party and hope for the best. What would I even do?”

            Margaery smirked. “I think you know _exactly_ what to do, darling. All you need to do is go up and just kiss him.”

            _Kiss him_ —she had tried that already, hadn’t she? And hadn’t he already tried to kiss her that night in the forest? Sansa worried her lip between her teeth. Both times they had been so careful around each other, so hesitant. And twice Jaime had pushed her away. “Just kiss him?” Sansa parroted back.

            “Do you need me to show you how?”

            “Ha.” Sansa whacked Margaery with her foot. “I’ll consider it,” she said.

            Margaery picked up her lemonade and raised it in the air. “To marrying boys and considering kissing them?”

            Sansa laughed and raised her own glass. “To that,” she said, trying to hide her smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's excited for ~tomorrow~? I promise ya'll next chapter is a big one...
> 
> For anyone curious about timeline stuff, I've fiddled with the age gaps between the Stark children. Cat is 43, Ned is 45, Robb was 20 when he died in 1970, Sansa is 18, Arya is 15, Bran is 11, and Rickon is 5. I guess it's not the most realistic thing for Cat to have given birth to Rickon when she was 38, but I had to make it work in order to have Robb born early enough to fight in Vietnam. Lmk if you have any questions.


	8. Debutante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I try to space out the days I update, but I figured I might as well post ~tomorrow~ today. Enjoy :)

****

**Saturday July 16, 1977**

            “Are we almost there?” Arya whined from the backseat. “I have to pee.”

            “You always have to pee,” Sansa grumbled. She twisted around to glare at her sister. “Maybe you shouldn’t have come.”

            Ned sighed. “Girls, behave.”

            “Then who would help you with your stupid hair?” Arya snapped. She turned towards the window and pouted at the trees rushing past.

            Late afternoon sun beamed in through the window of the family’s baby blue and dark wood station wagon. Sansa smiled at the warmth on her cheeks. The forty minute drive to Mr. Baelish’s mansion had somewhat settled her nerves, but she knew that as soon as the car came to a stuttering stop, the butterflies would return. Her mother had stayed behind to bring Rickon and Bran closer to when the ball actually started, and she had practically forced Arya to come early to help Sansa get ready. Sansa was pretty sure Catelyn just wanted Arya out of the house—it wasn’t like she had any skills in makeup or hair. Neither did her father, but someone had to drive them.

            The turn signal began its metallic click, then her father pulled off the highway and onto some hilly, country road. As the hills grew taller and the station wagon flew down the slopes, the dense trees lining the road began to thin, and soon a great plain of lush grass stretched out before them.

            “Here we are,” Ned said with a sigh of relief. He twisted the wheel to the left and pulled them down a gated road. Oak trees curved over the driveway, their branches crooked from age, their bright leaves whispering in the breeze. Sansa glanced over her shoulder and saw that her sister was just as delighted as she was—Westeros was brimming with trees, but those were dark and twisted, not perfectly bent and beautiful.

            “I’d like to live here,” Sansa mused as they drove. The driveway, it seemed, went on and on forever.

            “I hear that Mr. Baelish lives here all alone,” Arya said from the backseat. “You’d have to marry that creep to live here.”

            “ _Arya_ ,” Ned chided. “Mr. Baelish is our host tonight. And he’s rarely in Westeros as it is.”

            “I thought you didn’t like him,” Sansa said, frowning.

            “I don’t,” He glanced at Arya in the rearview mirror. “But that doesn’t mean you get to be rude, ok?”

            The rows of trees disappeared, and Sansa and Arya gasped at the same time. Sansa didn’t know where to look first, but thankfully her father stopped the car to take it all in too. The manor loomed before them, a fortress of slate grey siding cut across by marble columns the color of smoke. Alabaster veins crept up along the stone, covered only by the glossy strands of ivy snaking around the columns. Balconies wrapped around all three floors, jutting out from white framed windows of warped, bubbling glass. A black lake squatted on one side of the manor, reflecting back a cloudless sky in its stillness. The gnarled briars encircling the lake curved sharply away from the glassy surface.

            Harrenhal was a ghastly place, a haunted place. Sansa felt it in the way the wind tickled her neck when they stepped out into the front pebbled parking lot, the way the arched windows seemed to distort when she peered into them for too long.

            After retrieving their bags from the trunk, Ned let them to the front door: a wrought iron, frosted class contraption taller than she'd ever seen before. Two door knockers sat squarely in the center, and when Sansa looked closer, she saw that the iron had been carved into a bird’s head. Sharp feathers rippled beneath the sun, and heavy rings hung between their open beaks. Her father pulled one back with an uncertain frown. When he let go, it thudded back against the glass. Crows perched atop the second floor balcony screamed and scattered, and the heavy sound reverberated through the estate.

            Sansa hoisted her garment bag further up her shoulder, then glanced uneasily at her sister.

            Arya wore a similar look of trepidation. “This place is fucking weird,” Arya whispered. Normally, Sansa would have scolded her sister for cursing. But she had to agree. Harrenhal was like nothing Sansa had seen before.

            The doors flew open, and a buxom, auburn-haired women in denim bellbottoms and a halter top greeted them. Her eyes landed on Sansa. “You must be our debutante,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Ros.”

            “Sansa Stark.” She shook the woman’s hand.

            “Is Mr. Baelish here?” Ned asked.

            “Oh, not yet. But some of the other girls are already hanging out and getting ready upstairs. You and your sister can go up if you like,” she said, glancing at Arya.

            “Should I go with them? Their, erm, mother couldn’t make it this early.”

            Ros’s eyes skimmed up to meet Ned’s. “Sorry Mr. Stark—no boys allowed in the debutante’s lounge. We have a bar set up by the ball room if you like.”

            “No. No thank you.” He turned to Sansa and wrapped her into a hug. “I’ll drive home and come back with mom and the boys,” he said, pulling away. “See you soon.”

            Once the old station wagon had disappeared down the winding driveway, Ros escorted Sansa and Arya inside. A grand foyer lined with lush plants and gold-framed paintings led to two stone staircases the same grey color as the columns outside. Sansa wondered if this was the staircase they’d be descending down to meet their escorts, but when they passed by an arched opening in the wall, she caught a glimpse of the ballroom. A huge, red-carpeted staircase slinked down into a lacquered, chevron floor so glossy the dozen flaming chandeliers became two dozen in the reflection.

            Servants in black uniforms ran about with boxes and trays and even armfuls of high heels, but they didn’t seem to pay Sansa and Arya any mind. “Come on, girls,” Ros said. “The lounge is up here.” They climbed one of the foyer’s stairs to the second floor.

            “Hey,” Arya said, trying to keep up with Ros’s long legs. “Why’s this place so…fancy?” They walked down a hallway lined with closed door after door. Sansa had no idea where they could all possibly lead to.

            Ros laughed. “Mr. Baelish likes nice things,” she told Arya. They had to jump out of the way when a servant carrying a crate of candles strode briskly past. “He started renovating the property a few years ago.”

            “Really?” Sansa asked. “Where did they used to host the debutante balls?”

            “Some ghastly manor back in Westeros,” Ros told her. “A place called the Red Keep. It was all brick and no taste, really. No one missed it when they tore it down.” She came to a stop outside a door. Voices filtered through the wood—women laughing, girls chatting.

            “Did Baelish always live here?” Arya asked.

            “Arya, don’t be nosy,” Sansa snapped. She gave her sister a hard look, but Arya pretended not to see it.

            “It’s all right,” said Ros, smiling at her sister. “The Lannister family gifted Harrenhal to Mr. Baelish after they did business together. Now,” she said, twisting the brass doorknob. “I have to dash—apparently the curtains aren’t the right shade of red. Try to stay in the lounge until the ball starts. This is a huge place, after all. It’s easy to get lost.”

            Ros pushed open the door. Inside, Wylla, Asha, Meera, and a twenty or so other girls from smaller families sat around in various states of readiness for the ball. Most wore creamy, silk robes as they primed in front of the vanities set up in rows. Wylla was working on her makeup with and a pretty woman who looked strikingly like her save for the green hair, and Asha and Meera were busy painting their nails. Sansa looked around for Margaery. _She must be running late_ , Sansa thought as she and Arya plopped their stuff down at an empty vanity. _She must be freaking out._

After slipping into the robe hung over her chair, Sansa set about unpacking her things. She carefully laid out the makeup borrowed from her mother, lined up her hair pins beside the silver can of hairspray, and finally withdrew her gown from its garment bag. Sansa hung it up on the rack by the tall window. Some of the girls’ gowns were sleek, long-sleeved columns of silk. Others were poofed out like Sansa’s, though they all dripped in pale colors like lilac and blush, peach and sky blue. With its deep navy silk, her mother’s gown stood starkly against the rest. Sansa bit her lip, wondering if she should have fought her mother more on wearing the gown.

            With a slight sag in her shoulders, Sansa went back to her vanity. She rolled a gold tube of lipstick against the tabletop, then frowned. She looked around for Arya’s long face and short dark hair, but she found only the other debutantes and their guests.

            _Great,_ Sansa thought sullenly. She padded barefoot over the spongy carpet and poked her head out the door. “Arya?” A servant shot her a curious look, but other than that the hallway was empty. _Just great._

Sansa tightened the bow securing her robe, then set out on the path Ros had led them up. Once her feet hit the cold stone of the foyer, she glanced nervously towards the ballroom, then to another corridor running along it. Arya wouldn’t go into the ballroom—she was sure of that. Her sister didn’t give a crap about dancing or fancy manor homes. So Sansa set out towards the corridor, and as she crept deeper and deeper into the house, the sounds of cooking and the scent of something delightful and honeyed filled the hall. Sansa pressed her palm against the door the sounds and scents emerged from, then paused. She didn’t want to get in trouble for disturbing the cooks, but if there was a kitchen, Sansa was sure Arya would try to sneak something from it.

            “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

            Sansa whipped around to see a man in a suit watching her with an amused expression. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, maybe about Sansa’s height. His close-cropped, dark hair was tinged with silver at his temples, and he wore an easy look of confidence that heightened his already handsome features. But there was something about him that sent a chill rushing down Sansa’s spine. Something in the way his steel eyes glinted, the way his hands clasped loftily in front of his waist. His eyes ran down her, stripping her of the thin robe. Sansa clutched it tighter around herself. “Why not?” she asked.

            He stepped towards her, dress shoes tapping against the polished tiles. “Because my cooks don’t appreciate having their work judged before it’s ready.”

            “Your cooks?” Sansa asked. Her eyes narrowed, and she swept over him just as he did to her. “Are you Mr. Baelish?”

            “Very good.” He closed the distance between them. With her back to the kitchen door, Sansa forced herself to remain still. Mr. Baelish reached out, and Sansa flinched, thinking he was about to touch her, but his finger only lifted a lock of hair from her robe. His fingers ran down from her shoulder to the root, then dropped away. “Just like your mother’s,” he muttered. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “It’s nice to meet you, Sansa.”

            A held breath rushed free from her lungs. “Thank you for inviting me to the ball,” she said politely. She wished he’d step back, wish some servant or cook would come blustering into the hall to distract him.

            “Of course,” he answered lightly. “I—you and your mother must have been waiting for this day to come for quite some time.” The corners of his lips twitched back into a cool smirk. “It’s not everyday that a girl becomes a debutante.”

            Sansa’s brows pulled together. _What the hell is he on about?_ Sansa sidestepped and put on a courteous smile. “Excuse me, Mr. Baelish. I—I have to go find my sister. She ran off somewhere when I wasn’t looking.”

            “A small, dark-haired girl?” Mr. Baelish must have seen the realization flash across her face. He chuckled and pointed to a door further down the hall. “I saw her head through there a couple minutes ago with one of my waitstaff.”

            _Waitstaff?_ “Thank you, Mr. Baelish. I should get going now.”

            He dipped his head, and his thumb brushed his silver tie pin. He watched her for second more then gave her a sly smile before turning. As soon as he rounded the corner, Sansa pushed open the door he’d pointed to.

            “Arya!”

            “Sansa?”

            She sighed—her sister and Gendry were in some kind of supply closet. Arya sat perched on a wine barrel, with Gendry wearing a waiter’s uniform standing before her. As soon as he saw Sansa, Gendry’s eyes widened, and his hands fell away from her sister’s waist. “What are you doing in here?” Sansa asked. Her nose wrinkled, and her eyes fell on a yellow wheel of cheese.

            Arya jumped down from the barrel and crossed her arms. “Gendry’s working the ball,” she said hotly. “You got a problem with that?”

            _Oh my God._ “No, Arya, I have a problem with you sneaking off without telling me!”

            Gendry stared at his feet. “I told her to meet me here,” he said sheepishly.

            Arya grabbed his hand. “Come on, Gendry,” she huffed, pulling him behind her into the hall. “We’ll go somewhere my stupid sister can’t find us.”

            “Um, no you won’t,” Sansa retorted, following them. “You have to help me get ready. And besides, isn’t Gendry working right now?” Her sister slowed. “Do you really want to get him in trouble?”

            Arya stopped and glared up at her. “No.”

            “She’s right, babe,” Gendry muttered. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I’ll find you later, ok?”

            Arya pressed a quick kiss against his lips while Sansa looked sharply away. “Ok, babe.”      Gendry went off towards the kitchen, and Arya dragged her feet as she followed Sansa back up to the debutante’s lounge. When Sansa finally settled back into her vanity with a sigh, Arya jumped up to sit on the tabletop. Her sister picked up a lipstick and began twisting it violently up and down until Sansa finally wrenched it from her hands.

            “Stop that,” Sansa snapped. She placed it gently back down beside the others. “What’s wrong with you today?”

            Arya rolled her eyes and scowled down at her dangling feet. “Everyone thinks our relationship is a joke—you, mom, dad.”

            “Arya, you’re fifteen. Gendry’s done with high school now. Do you really think it can last? Even if you stayed together, Gendry doesn’t exactly have any money.”

            Her sister huffed. “You all think being with some rich guy from the Houses is all that matters,” she said sullenly. “But it doesn’t. Not when you’re in love.”

            A smile crept onto Sansa’s face. When Arya finally glanced at her, she smacked Sansa in the arm. “You love him!” Sansa swooned. “God help us, my bratty sister’s in love with a boy from Flea Bottom.”

            “Shut up!” Arya whined through the smile she was trying to hide. She pushed back her short hair, and Sansa saw the pink tinging her cheeks. “Gendry loves me too, you know. I think…I think we’re going to run away…”

            The lounge door suddenly burst open, and Sansa jumped to her feet to see Margaery stumbling inside with a huge garment bag over her shoulder. “Sansa, Sansa!” Margaery cried. She threw the dress to the ground and ran into Sansa’s arms. “Oh darling, it’s been such a horrid day!”

            Sansa eased Margaery into her chair, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Arya hanging up Margaery’s dress before slinking away. Sansa decided to ignore whatever was going on with her sister for now. She crouched down before Margaery and pulled her friend’s hair from her sweaty neck. “What happed?” she asked.

            Margaery fanned herself with her hand. “Where do I start! First, I completely misplaced the makeup bag I had packed—”

            “You can borrow mine.”

            “—then I could _barely_ get that dress stuffed into the bag, father hit a pot hole on that _awful_ driveway, I tripped going up those terribly slippery stairs…”

            “Marg, just breathe, ok?” Her friend took a quick breath. “Good. That’s good. Now I’m going to get you something to drink, then we’ll get your makeup on.”

            As Sansa grabbed a glass of water from the refreshments table, she shook her head, smiling. Margaery usually couldn’t care less about being late to an event—that was called being _fashionably late, darling_. This was all about Oberyn. Margaery was terrified that something would go wrong tonight. It was sweet, really, to see how worked up her friend was over the betrothal. Margaery didn’t care this much for just anyone.

            “Drink this,” Sansa said, pushing a glass into Margaery’s hand. “Do you know what kind of look you want to go for?” she asked, eyeing her spread of lipsticks and powders and pencils.

            “Bridal?”

            Sansa laughed. “Seriously?”

            Margaery gave a small nod, then she looked over to the dress rack. Sansa’s eyes landed on Margaery’s garment bag, then her mouth fell open when she saw the white satin hem peeking out the bottom. “Is that…”

             “I was hoping it might inspire Oberyn,” said Margaery sheepishly.

 

            With Sansa, Margaery, and all the other girls zipped or buttoned or tied into their gowns, Ros came to collect the guests to get ready in a different room. Arya gave Sansa a rare hug before disappearing with the other women. Sansa glanced nervously to Margaery, then reached for her hand. Margaery truly was a vision tonight; simple, white silk skimmed her curves, and pleated, billowy sleeves gave the look a demureness than Sansa wasn’t  used to seeing on her flirtatious friend. It was no wedding dress, but it certainly gave the impression that the girl swathed in creamy silk was ready to be a bride.

            “Ready?” Sana asked.

            The door swung open, and Mr. Baelish stepped inside.

            “Ready,” Margaery said. She took a deep breath.

            Mr. Baelish clapped his hands. The girls fell quiet, with only the occasional rush of skirts breaking the silence. Mr. Baelish ran his eyes over them all, but Sansa could have sworn he lingered on Sansa in her navy gown. “You all look marvelous,” he told them with a wink. “The opening ceremony is about to begin. I’m going to lead you to the top of the staircase where you’ll be lined up according to your family name. Once your name is called, you’ll descend into the ballroom to meet your escort. After all the debutantes and their escorts have reached the ballroom, the first dance will commence. Any questions? No? Good.” He turned on his heel, and the girls began trickling out behind him.

            When they reached the wing that lead to the staircase, excited voices from below began to drift up. Sansa imagined her family waiting for her down there—father in his special suit, mother in her favorite heather grey dress, Arya hopefully in a skirt, and her brothers dressed up in little bowties. She grinned—tonight really was going to be special.

            Mr. Baelish approached them. “Margaery, Sansa, let me show you where to stand,” he said amiably. He held out both his arms, and they both placed a hand in the crook of his elbow.

            “You have a beautiful house, Mr. Baelish,” Margaery told him as they moved towards the end of the line.

            “Yes,” he agreed. Sansa raised her brows— _a little full of himself, isn’t he?_ “Perfect for filling with beautiful things.” His voice was still pleasant, but Sansa didn’t like the way he watched her as he said it. He lead them to stand behind Meera in her velvet green gown, and Sansa and Margaery gave him courteous goodbyes.

            As he drifted over to help another girl into place, Sansa eyed the back of his head. “A bit…arrogant, isn’t he?”

            “I’d say,” Margaery answered quietly. “I’m surprised he’s never managed to keep one of his debutantes here for good.”

            They chatted quietly among themselves for a few minutes. Once Mr. Baelish left towards the staircase at the end of the hall, a hush fell over the crowd down below, and the girls fell silent above. His words were too muffled to make out, but Sansa knew the procession had begun when the first girl was nudged by Ros towards the stairs. Violins began to sing, and a nervous breath caught in Sansa’s throat. It was really all happening just as she’d always pictured it.

            The girls left one after another, and as the line grew shorter, butterflies began to flutter madly in her stomach. Joffrey was down there waiting for her, and Sansa dreaded having to even lay a hand on his arm, let alone dance with him. _Hopefully it won’t be so bad with everyone watching_ , she thought. _What could he possibly do in front of the entire town?_ They stepped forward again, and now Margaery stood in the front. _And Jaime’s somewhere down there too._ She smiled, remembering how he mouthed _tomorrow_ at her from his Mustang. 

            They had reached the front of the line. Margaery shot Sansa one last, frantic smile, then she swept over to the stairs. After a minute, Ros waved Sansa on behind her.

            Tomorrow had finally become today.

            Sansa picked up her skirts and stepped out from the corridor. Candlelight and swelling violins greeted her, and after blinking into the warm glow of the ballroom, she found her family in the audience. They beamed up at her, and Arya even waved a terribly unladylike wave. Sansa’s gaze shifted, and she found the gleaming golden heads of the Lannisters. Tywin and Cersei and the rest were there, but Sansa only had eyes for one. Jaime gazed up at her, and everything else fell away. His brushed hair gleamed beneath the chandeliers, and in his pitch black suit, he looked like he stepped right out of Hollywood film. Jaime raised a hand, just barely, in greeting.

            “Miss Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Mr. Baelish called out. “Escorted by Joffrey Baratheon of Casterly Rock.”

            Sansa took a breath, set her gaze firmly on the scarlet steps beneath her feet, picked up her skirts, and began to drift down the stairs. When she finally reached the polished wood of the dancefloor, she looked towards the line of escorts waiting at the bottom, then she realized with sudden surge of fear that Joffrey was nowhere to be seen.

            Sansa dragged her gaze to the other side, thinking he might just be in the wrong spot, but only Mr. Baelish stared frowning back at her from his podium.

            Whispers swept through the room, the violins began to slow, the candles high above her head burned too bright, too hot. _Where is he?_ Sansa wondered, spinning around to look back up the stairs. Another girl was starting to walk down, but no one had come to collect her yet. _Should I leave? Join the others without an escort?_

            Suddenly, the crowd parted, and Jaime came striding towards her. “Play along,” he murmured in her ear. Jaime moved to stand by her side, then held out an arm.

            She took it.

            “Where’s Joffrey?” Sansa whispered. They lined up beside the other pairs. Sansa could feel Margaery’s eyes burning into her. Luckily Trystane stood between them. Sansa didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say to her friend. Her family and the Lannisters were hidden from view behind the Greyjoy family, and for that Sansa was grateful. She didn’t want to face them yet either.

            “Later,” he answered. Another pair joined them, and Jaime shifted closer, his suit jacket brushing against Sansa’s waist.

            The last girl must have come down, because in another instant the sea of guests split at the center, and the debutantes and their escorts were all drifting onto the dance floor. Jaime led her behind them, and when the pairs finally turned to face each other, he moved to stand before her like he’d done it a thousand times.

            He bowed. She curtsied.

            “We need to dance now,” Jaime whispered.

            Sansa’s eyes refocused on his face, and she found a tiny smirk playing on his lips. “Oh. Right.” She wound her fingers through his hand, then placed the other on his back. When Jaime’s hand found her waist, Sansa felt her heart jump in her chest.

            The violins sang faster, and the dance began. Jaime moved Sansa through the steps easily, even when she tripped over his foot. They kept their gazes directed over each other’s shoulders like the dance required, but Sansa kept sneaking glances at him through her lashes.

            “You’re staring,” Jaime murmured. He held up their intertwined hands—her skirts billowed out as she twirled, and when Jaime pulled her back in with just a little too much force, she gasped.

            His eyes were on hers now. _Screw the rules_ , she thought, looking up at him. “You’re not supposed to be my escort.”

            “Do you want me to go?”

            Sansa bit her lip. They whirled around, and he spun her out again. “No,” she answered, breathless. “Don’t go.” A satisfied smile spread over Jaime’s lips as he drew her towards his chest. When his hand slid back to her waist, his fingers tightened into the silk in a way that sent Sansa’s heart racing.

            They pivoted around a corner, and over Jaime’s shoulder her eyes landed on Tywin. Anger radiated from the older man’s face, then he looked sharply away. “What happened to Joffrey?” she whispered.

            Jaime’s jaw hardened. “He won’t bother you tonight.”

            “Why?”

            “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I got you.”

            He did—they spun and twirled and held each other close until the violins slowly drifted into a new song. When Sansa saw that the guests were spilling back onto the dancefloor, Sansa knew she was supposed to let go. Her hands stayed put as Margaery’s words of wisdom came flooding back. Sansa glanced around, then when she saw no one watching, she closed the distance between them. She glanced up at Jaime, and said softly, “Did you like seeing me in the window?” Jaime’s lips parted in surprise, but he didn’t let go. His eyes ran her up and down, and Sansa shivered pleasantly under the fire he left on her skin.

            Jaime tipped his head down by her ear. “It was a lovely view,” he murmured against her skin.

            When he pulled away, Sansa knew her cheeks were bright red. Luckily or not, Jaime suddenly turned around. Tyrion stood there, looking up at his brother with a solemn expression.

            “Hello, Sansa,” he said in a grave voice. “Do you mind if I steal my brother away?”

            Sansa smiled politely. “Not at all.” She met Jaime’s eyes. He nodded.

            They walked off into the crowd, but Sansa only had a moment to catch her breath and wonder what that was all about before a hand slid across the small of her back.

            “Sansa.” Mr. Baelish moved to stand in front of her. He bowed. “May I have this dance?”

            “Of course,” she said, trying to keep the unease from her voice. _It’s probably customary_ , Sansa mused as he gathered her in his arms. _He dances with all the debutantes._  

            They fell into step with the couples whirling all around. Sansa caught a glimpse of Margaery’s white gown, but she couldn’t see the man she danced with.

            “You look lovely in that dress.”

            She dragged her eyes back to Mr. Baelish. “Thank you. It was the gown my mother wore.”

            He tilted his head. “Is that what she told you?”

            Sansa frowned. “I hardly think she has cause to lie.”

            “Oh, she had every intention of wearing that dress when she bought it.” They spun towards another couple before he shifted them out of the way. “Catelyn bought that dress before she got pregnant with her first child,” he whispered. Sansa shivered. “By the time she was a debutante two years later, the dress sadly didn’t fit, and Catelyn had your brother Robb on her hip.”

            “Why are you telling me this?”

            He brushed past her comment. “Your daddy broke up with her the month of the ball,” he said, and Sansa’s eyes widened. “Of course they weren’t married yet. Then who was left to escort her but me, a friend from childhood? In the middle of your mother’s heartbreak, I was her knight in shining armor. I escorted her to the ball, but sadly she had to wear some other dress, something far less befitting a girl of her beauty.” He pressed Sansa closer, and his breath washed over her cheek. “I’m telling you this because you should know how happy it makes me to finally see this dress on Catelyn Tully’s daughter.” Sansa tried to back out of his grasp, but he held her tightly against him. Their feet stilled, and they stood frozen in the midst of couples dancing all around. “I gladly helped your mother once. If you ever need anything,” he whispered, his lips just brushing her cheek, “anything at all, find me. Do you understand?” Mr. Baelish held her at arm’s length. Sansa nodded. “Good.”

            He melted back into the dancers, and Sansa let out a long-held breath. The strange conversation had rattled her—what on Earth was he talking about, needing his help? Sansa pressed through the crowd until she saw Gendry and Arya over by the drinks table. She made a beeline for them.

            “You ok?” Arya asked when Sansa approached. She had two champagne flutes, one in each hand. “Hey!” Arya complained when Sansa snatched one for herself.

            “You’re too young to drink,” Sansa muttered, before downing half the glass. The bubbles left a pleasant tingling down her throat. She quickly finished the rest. “And I’m fine. Just…a lot happened in the last ten minutes.” Gendry held out another drink. She gladly accepted it while Arya glared.

            “What’s with Jaime Lannister escorting you?” Arya asked.

            Sansa shrugged. “Apparently Joffrey couldn’t make it. Not that I mind.” She finished the glass, and even Arya looked impressed. Sansa turned to Gendry. “Did you ever hear more about Dany and her brother?”

            Gendry grimaced. “Nope. They just…vanished. Not a person in Flea Bottom has any idea what happened.”

            Sansa’s brows pulled together. “She was supposed to be here tonight, you know. Margaery said Baelish invited her personally.”

            “Maybe he killed her,” Arya muttered. When Sansa shot her a glare, Arya rolled her eyes. “Just kidding.”

            Sansa looked around the ball for a minute, taking in the women with silks swirling around their ankles, men in dark suit guiding them over the gleaming floor. The brass chandeliers cast the room in golden pools, mixing with the blue evening light falling in through the high, arching windows framed with red velvet curtains. In one corner, her parents spun around, laughing like they were young again. In another, Rickon was attempting to push Bran’s wheelchair around in circles. Margaery and Oberyn stood shoulder to shoulder by the far wall, looking out at the fields rising into the distance behind the balcony. Sansa sighed—it really was something special, even with a last minute escort change and an overeagerly helpful host.  

            She looked back to her sister and found Arya trading silent looks with Gendry. “What?” she asked.

            Arya gave her an exasperated look. “It’s just…you’re not going hang out with us all night, are you?”

            Sansa pressed her lips together. “Fine,” she said, plucking another champagne flute off the tray. “I’ll find something else to do.”

            She went stalking off through the crowd, but instead of dragging Margaery away from her soon-to-be-fiancé, she asked a waiter where the bathrooms were and made her way to a narrow hallway shooting off from the ballroom. Sansa finished her champagne, set it lightly on the tiles outside the ladies room, and pushed inside.

            The bathroom was all slippery white and pink veined marble, and it was spotless—except for the two girls making out against the counter. Sansa stood frozen in the threshold, but when the door shut behind her, they both whirled around. Asha and Meera stared at her, their cheeks flushed, their curled hair wild, and their lipstick smudged.

            “Hi Sansa,” Meera said.

            “Hi Meera. Asha.”

            Asha stepped forward in from of Meera. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

            “No,” Sansa said, smiling. “I think you look really good together.” Asha’s eyes slid over to Meera, and they shared a secretive smile. “I’ll…leave you too it. Maybe lock the door this time?” A small giggle bubbled up— _too much champagne,_ Sansa thought as she backed out with a mumbled apology. _Too much too fast._

She sighed happily as she made her way back from the bathroom. When she reached the ballroom, Sansa slid past the guests towards a glass door leading out to the balcony. Her head felt fuzzy after all the champagne she wasn’t used to. _Some fresh air will do me good,_ she thought, stepping out into the night. The air was blessedly cool on her face, and the wind ruffled her skirts as she went up to the railing. Out here the ball was nothing more than the flicker of dancers and candlelight through the window, the lull of violins and the rumble of chatter. Pale moonlight bathed the fields stretching out into the dark horizon, and birds dove swiftly through the midnight ocean of the sky. Out here, Harrenhal was beautiful.

            The door clicked shut behind her, and Sansa turned to see Jaime. “Hi,” she whispered.

            “Hi.”

            He joined her by the railing. Even in the cool night air, Sansa felt hot—too hot. She remembered what Margaery had told her yesterday.  

            The wind picked up, brushing her warm cheeks, tossing her curls back over her shoulders.

            _Just kiss him._

            Jaime was saying something, something about the full moon and the countryside and how beautiful it looked tonight. Sansa stared out at that same landscape, but her heart was beating too fast to comprehend him or the view or both.

            _Just kiss him._

His hand settled down on the wooden rail beside hers. Not touching, but too close to mean anything other than the intent to draw closer.

            _Just kiss him._

            Sansa turned, pressed up on her tiptoes, and curled her arm around his neck.

            She kissed him.

            It was warmer and wetter than she expected—strangely foreign yet steeped in instant understanding. Jaime’s lips parted for her, and his hand wound into the curls cascading from the back of her head. Jaime kissed her back as he found her waist, pressing her closer. Their noses bumped. Her teeth clashed against his. Jaime laughed into her mouth and sank deeper against her body.

            Somewhere, in the great green distance, an owl cried at the moon.

            Jaime pulled away, and Sansa found herself gulping down the air she hadn’t been breathing during the kiss. Her arm slid away from his neck, but Jaime didn’t release her hair or waist just yet.

            “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over her flushed face, her flushed chest where the gown cut low against her breasts. “Let’s go somewhere else. Somewhere no one can see us.” He brushed his thumb against the nape of her neck. Sansa shivered.

            She bit her lip. “Ok.”

            Jaime took her by the hand and led her down a shallow flight of steps leading off the balcony. Their shoes crunched against the pebbled driveway following the side of the manor. They followed the curve around the shape of the ballroom, and where the manor dipped back to a straight line, she saw another parking lot opposite a door leading back into the house. “Where are we?” she asked.

            “The servants entrance.”

            “And we’re here why?”

            He rounded on her, and his eyes flashed with some kind of primal desire. “Because there’s no one around to watch me kiss you,” he said in a low voice. Jaime stalked towards her, forcing Sansa to step back until she hit the wooden siding of the manor. He pressed her up against the wall, and in an instant his lips were back on hers, his hands sliding up to hold her waist. His grip was hard, his lips crushing.

            It scared her. It thrilled her.

            “ _Jaime_ ,” she breathed out. This was _nothing_ like she imagined her first kiss being.

            Jaime’s lips trailed away from her mouth, and he pressed a line of burning kisses along her jaw, down her throat. His hands slid up to her ribcage, and his thumbs brushed the soft underside of her breasts beneath the slippery silk.

            _It worked_. Sansa was too stunned to really process the man holding her up against the wall— _kissing_ her up against the wall. She had kissed him, and now he was kissing her back like a man dying of thirst.

            Sansa wrapped her fingers into his golden locks, and when her fingernails scratched the nape of his neck, Jaime growled in pleasure. His lips drifted back to her ear. “Turn around,” he whispered.

            Sansa barely had to move—Jaime was already turning her firmly around. He kept her away from the wall, instead wrapping his arms around her, his legs standing securely on either side of her hips. The fabric of her skirt bunched and wrinkled, but Sansa hardly paid it any mind. Jaime was pressing soft kisses into the side of her throat, down to where her shoulder blades disappeared beneath silk.

            Jaime’s arms left her waist to slide his hands down her arms and capture her wrists. She felt him draw her arms behind her, placing her hands behind her back with her elbows bent. “What are you doing?” Sansa asked, giggling breathlessly. Only the wind and his ragged breathing replied.

            Sansa glanced up over her shoulder, but Jaime would not meet her eyes. She began to turn, but Jaime’s grip hardened, forcing her to remain still “Jaime?” she asked nervously.

            Something hard slipped over her wrists, then with a sharp yank it tightened painfully, digging in to the soft skin. Before she could scream, before she could kick back, before she could _think_ , Jaime’s hand clamped over her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH DON'T HATE ME. That's all I have to say about this chapter. 
> 
> In other news, I'm starting up my summer internship tomorrow so chapters are going to be posted less frequently. I will try to post at least once a week though, so I hope ya'll don't mind sticking around longer for those updates.


	9. We Might As Well Go South

            

            Jaime dragged Sansa over to his Mustang parked among the pickups and rusty station wagons. With his hand still clamped over her mouth, Jaime managed to yank open the door. She began to kick when he hoisted her inside, and Jaime was forced to dump her unceremoniously in the passenger’s seat. Her skirt caught in the door when he tried to close it, and she twisted, jerking her shoulders towards the door in an attempt to break free.

            “Fuck,” Jaime cursed. He shoved the navy silk back inside along with her shoulders and slammed it shut. He locked it then looked back towards the manor. Jaime pressed his palms against his forehead.

            _What am I doing?_

He was breathing too fast. He had to calm down. Was anyone watching? Jaime glanced over his shoulder, but they were alone in the parking lot.

            _What the fuck am I doing?_

            Jaime pushed his hair back, took a deep breath, and slid in behind the wheel. Sansa had straightened herself out, though her torso was bent forward to accommodate her hands zip-tied behind her back. Her curls had knotted together at the base of her neck, and a smudge of pink lipstick framed the corner of her mouth. A sick feeling washed over him; Jaime wasn’t sure if the smudge was from kissing her or holding his hand over her mouth.

            He jammed the key in the ignition.

            “Are you kidnapping me?”

            Under any other circumstances, Jaime would have laughed at the absolute sincerity in her voice. He stomped on the gas and pulled away towards the driveway. When he glanced over, he saw the wild fear on her face, the tears pricking her eyes. “I’m not,” he said shakily.

            Sansa wiggled her wrists and tried to get a look at her hands. “You— _God_ , Jaime you tied my hands back and forced me in a car! You—you kissed me and then…” She dropped back against the seat as far as her restraints let her, defeated. “You kidnaped me.”

            They were at the street now. As soon as a pair of yellow headlights zoomed past, he made a sharp right to follow them. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I had to,” he said desperately. Jaime hated how his voice sounded: scared and weak, unsure and terrified. He _was_ terrified—of his family back at the ball waiting to hear that Jaime had successfully captured their prize, terrified of what they’d do when he never made that call. Terrified of hurting the girl beside him no matter what he did. “It’s for your own good, God damnit,” Jaime growled, smacking the wheel with the flat of his hand.

            Sansa flinched.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw her eyes drift nervously to the wheel. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said darkly. “If you knock us off the road, we could both end up with our skulls crushed in by a tree.

            “Tell me why,” Sansa whispered, her voice trembling. “Tell me why, Jaime.”

            A green sign flashed up ahead. Jaime took the exit. After a sharp curve, they were racing along the empty highway. To where, he didn’t know. “I had to,” Jaime answered hoarsely. He cleared his throat, tried to steady his hands. He gripped the wheel harder. “Keeping you alive and out of their reach is the only way to save your family.” He eyed her bound hands. “I had to,” he repeated lamely. “I had to get you in the car before anyone saw—there was no _time_ to convince you to get in willingly.”

            “What do you mean, save my family?” There was an edge to her voice now—the tears had dried. All she had left was anger. Jaime knew the feeling too well.

            Jaime pressed his lips together. She deserved the truth, even if she despised him for it. “My family planned to have me kidnap you tonight,” he began slowly. “Once I take you to the safe house, my father will give you a choice. Marry Joffrey or let your family die. But it’s no choice,” Jaime spat. “They’d kill your family either way to steal your damn inheritance.”

            “And you’re…you’re taking me to the safe house?” Her voice was so small now, trembling with fear.

            “No. No, I’m not,” he said willfully, almost to reassure himself. “I’m never going to let them hurt you. As long as you’re missing, they won’t touch your family.”

            She was silent for a minute—maybe processing, maybe simply staring out at the night rushing past the window. “How long have you known about this plan?” she whispered.

            Jaime glared at the taillights of a car up ahead. His knuckles turned white around the steering wheel. “Since before we met.” Guilt twisted like a knife in his stomach.

            A sob wrenched free from Sansa’s throat. It sickened him, knowing he’d caused it. “Jaime,” she cried. “You’ve been working with them this whole time, haven’t you? Haven’t you!” she sobbed.

            Jaime couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Until last night,” he whispered. “I changed my mind last night.”

            “All those times we…we got closer.” A manic laugh bubbled up, a terrible thing mixed with tears.  “None of it was real, was it?”

            With a jerk of the wheel and a stomp on the breaks, Jaime slid the car off onto the edge of the highway. They both slammed back against the headrests. He finally turned to look at her. Sansa’s cheeks glistened, and her hair was matted around her neck. “It was,” Jaime said. He reached for her, but Sansa twisted sharply away to lean against the window. “It was all real, Sansa. Please, believe me.” He tried again, and this time she couldn’t move away when he grasped her chin. Jaime forced her to meet his eyes. “Sansa, I would never hurt you.”

            Tears splashed against his hand. “You already have,” she snapped, wrenching free. “I want to go home.”

            Jaime’s jaw hardened. “If I take you home, my family will find you. It’ll all happen anyway—you’ll be forced to marry Joffrey and watch the people you love die.” He reached past her into the glove compartment, pulled out his pocket knife, and took hold of her wrists. He cut through the zip tie and threw it aside.

            Sansa didn’t move. With her forehead pressed against the window, she closed her eyes and let the tears slide down her cheeks.

            Jaime pulled back onto the road.

 

            After a silent hour driving through the night, Jaime spotted a flashing sign for the Blackwater motel. He didn’t recognize the area, but the river was a long one, and he didn’t think they had driven back towards Westeros. He pulled up to parking space in front of the grimy, bright windows of the lobby. “I’m going to get a room,” he told Sansa.

            Her eyes were open now, and she stared at him dully. “Ok.”

            “Are you going to try to leave?”

            “Where would I go?”

            Jaime nodded, stepped outside, and slammed the door closed. He thought about locking it, but decided against it. It would only scare her more.

            Inside the lobby, a short man with stringy hair combed across his balding head stood behind the front desk. “You have rooms available?” Jaime asked as he approached.

            The man studied him, then glanced at the Mustang parked outside. “Yep.”

            “Doubles?”

            “Nope.”

            Jaime sighed. “You only have single rooms in this whole motel?”

            “Yep.” He popped the _p_ with a little smirk, then looked back at the car. Jaime turned—Sansa was sitting there with her arms crossed. She looked half beautiful, half wild in her mussed debutante gown and hair. “We have special rooms for that, if you wanna pay extra,” the man drawled, drawing Jaime’s attention back to the desk.

            “Excuse me?”

            “You know…rooms with a little extra…equipment,” the man answered with a sly smile.

            Jaime’s brows shot up. “You think she’s a prostitute?” he demanded.

            The man’s face fell. He gulped. “No.”

            Jaime let out an exasperated sigh and took out his wallet. “How much for a room?”

            After paying the balding man who gawked as Sansa stepped out of the car, Jaime led Sansa up the outdoor flight of rickety metal stairs to their room on the second floor. People in the parking lot stared at them—Sansa in her huge gown, Jaime in his suit—but no one said a word. Still, Jaime breathed out a sigh of relief when he finally locked them inside the room. He wanted as few people as possible to see them.

            It was a small, musty room. A squat queen bed sat across from a small television perched on the chipped dresser. In the bathroom, a single yellow, flickering light illuminated the toothpaste stains and the grimy shower walls. An electric stove with a single burner nestled up against an orange cabinet and matching countertop. The room was nicer than Jaime’s cell in prison, but judging by Sansa’s crestfallen face, he guessed she’d never slept anywhere worse than Winterfell.

            While Jaime did a quick intake of the room, Sansa stood by the door clutching herself. When Jaime finally stepped back over to her, he sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. _For the room, for hurting you, for not stopping my family sooner._

            She ignored any meaning of his words. Her red-rimmed eyes flicked up to Jaime’s. “I want to talk to them.”

            “Who?”

            “My family.”

            Jaime frowned. “Your family’s fine.”

            “No.” Her icy voice snapped through the room. “I don’t have any reason to believe you. I want to hear their voices—I want to know that they’re still alive!”

            Jaime raked back his hair as he gazed at her. He remembered seeing a payphone on the balcony outside, but he didn’t like the idea of risking her out in the open, let alone risking her revealing something potentially dangerous to her family or anyone else listening. _But what choice do I have?_ He needed her to trust him—she needed to know he wanted to keep her and her family safe. “Fine,” Jaime said. “But we’re doing it my way.”

            Jaime kept her tucked between him and the rough stucco wall of the motel as they walked briskly to the pay phone, just in case anyone was watching. When they got to the silver box, Jaime shifted closer. “I can’t let them hear you, sweetheart.”

            “Why?”

            “Because if you tell them something—whether you mean to or not—my family might be able to find us.”

            Sansa glared at him, but she nodded. “I won’t say anything,” she muttered, picking up the shiny black receiver and punching in a phone number. After a crackle, someone picked up on the other end. There was ragged breathing, then quietly, “Who is this?”

            It was Ned Stark’s voice—tired and hoarse, but Ned Stark alive and well. Jaime eyed Sansa warily. Her lip began to tremble.

            “Cat—come here.”

            “Hello?” Catelyn whispered. “Sansa?”

            Sansa’s lips parted, and she took a sharp breath. Quickly, Jaime stepped behind her and clamped his hand over his mouth as he yanked the receiver from her hand. “That’s enough—you heard them,” Jaime murmured into her hair. As he began to hang up, Sansa tried to wiggle free. Jaime wrapped an arm around her waist, quickly released her mouth to hang up the phone, and carried her backwards away from the payphone.

            “Let me call again,” Sansa choked out. She tried to move back towards the box, but Jaime lifted her futher away. She kicked back, and Jaime winced when her heels met his shins. Sansa tried to elbow him next, but her blows made little impact against his chest. Jaime carried her like that the short distance back to their room, and as soon as the door shut, he slid down along it.

            “I’m sorry,” Jaime whispered. He held Sansa to his chest, and her body became limp against his. “I’m sorry.” Sobs broke through her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

            Jaime didn’t know what to do, what to say—he never wanted any of this to happen. All he could do was hold her as she cried against him, hold her close and whisper pointless, calming words into her hair. Sansa grasped the arms he wrapped around her, like she’d drown if he let go.

            When her tears had dried against her cheeks, against his arms, Sansa let out a long, trembling breath. “Jaime?” she said, sniffing.

            “Yes?”

            She turned slightly to look up at him. Tear-tracks stained her cheeks, and her makeup had nearly run off completely. “If I stay with you, my family will be safe,” she whispered tentatively. It wasn’t a question.

            “Yes,” he answered quietly.

            She searched his face. “Then I’ll stay—but it can’t…it can’t be like it was before. I don’t know how to trust you.”

            Jaime swallowed back the lump in his throat. She was right, of course. Sansa had no reason to trust the man that had worked against her. And it wasn’t as if he could explain how every moment he’d spent with her made him question everything—the plan, his family, himself. How every time they’d nearly kissed, Jaime’s heart had grown to care for her despite everything. “I know,” he said finally. “That’s ok.”

            Her eyes blinked sleepily. Jaime gathered her in his arms and carried her to the bed. The blankets were still tucked beneath her, but Jaime guessed she wouldn’t mind for now. He deposited this girl, this heap of navy silk and dried tears and utter exhaustion, onto the bed. Her eyes closed as soon as he lowered her head gently onto the pillow, and in another few minutes, her breathing had steadied into the rhythm of sleep. Jaime moved around and settled in on the other side of the bed. With his elbow cradling his head, Jaime stared at the popcorn ceiling through the darkness until he too drifted off to sleep.

 

**Sunday July 17, 1977**

He woke around nine to a motorcycle rumbling off in the parking lot below. Jaime rolled over in bed. Pale morning light shafted in through the blinds, and Sansa’s gown shimmered in the sun. Jaime glanced down at his own body stretched out on top of the blankets. The knot of his tie had loosed down below his collar, and both his shirt and suit had wrinkled beyond saving.

            _Shit._ He’d been reckless last night, completely forgoting that they’d both be escaping Harrenhal in only their ball clothes. Sansa likely hadn’t arrived to the manor in her dress, but whatever practical clothes she’d had were far away. He’d have to go out—and leave her unattended. Hopefully after the ordeal of last night, she wouldn’t even realize he had slipped out.

            Jaime fixed what he could in the cracked bathroom mirror. He managed to comb his hair back behind his ear and smoothed a few wrinkles from his shirt. The jacket, however, was unsalvageable. Jaime shrugged it off as he made his way back across the motel room, but he paused at the door when Sansa called out sleepily, “Jaime?”

            He gave her a weak smile. “I’m going out to buy us some clothes and food,” he told her gently. “Don’t leave the room, ok?”

            She rubbed at her eyes. “What would you do if I did?”

            His jaw hardened—he wasn’t sure, really. She had to understand that staying put was her best option, didn’t she? Wandering around the seedy Blackwater motel could lead to his family searching for her, or worse. But he didn’t want to scare her into staying either. “Just stay here,” he muttered. Sansa watched him a moment longer then fell back into the pillows.

            He hoped that meant she agreed.

            Jaime walked briskly down the street leading away from the motel. About a half mile into the little strip of a town, a small shop with clothing racks in the window caught his eye, and Jaime jogged across the street. A faded sign told him a thrift shop. Jaime grimaced as he entered, but he knew he got lucky finding something so quickly.

            The teenage girl with a silver ring poked through her nose gave him a suspicious once-over before setting down with some comic book behind the counter. Apparently men in wrinkled dress clothes weren’t her usual customer.

            He made quick work of replacing his own clothes—t-shirts, button ups, a pack of boxers he hoped were new, and a few sturdy pairs of denim. Things got complicated when he drifted over to the women’s side—what did a girl like Sansa like to wear? Usually she was in some pretty skirt and matching top, or a sundress, but Jaime hardly thought that would be practical on the run. She’d worn those little shorts the one time, the ones that sent Jaime’s thoughts spiraling towards dark places. He fingered a pair of similar shorts. _Would she want these?_ Obviously Jaime wouldn’t mind. He threw them over his arm, just in case they ran into particularly hot weather.

            Moving on, Jaime found some sandals and clogs he hoped would fit, an armful of blouses and t-shirts, some wide-legged blue jeans, a pack of women’s underwear, and a few flowy skirts. Sansa would probably laugh when she saw what he’d picked, but it would have to do. He picked up an old, leather duffle bag as well, then put the whole pile down on the counter.

            After dealing with a few more suspicious looks from the cashier, Jaime started to head back towards the motel. A supermarket caught his eye, and Jaimie slipped in to pick some water and food he thought they’d manage with in the motel. On his way down to grab some toiletries, a row of smiling women with lustrous hair caught his eye. Jaime picked one of the boxes up—the women on the front grinned at him beneath a curtain of jet-black hair.

            “She’s going to hate me,” Jaime muttered. He tossed it in his cart.

            When Jaime returned to the room and deposited his bags on the floor, he found Sansa on the bed just as he had left her. Only now, the sheets had darkened beneath her cheeks, and her eyes were rimmed with red once again. “I picked up some clothes for you,” Jaime said, handing her the bags.

            Sansa pushed herself up, wiped at her eyes, and carefully peered inside. “Did you chose these?” she asked warily. She held up a pair of clogs adorned with tiny, leather flowers.

            “You don’t like them?”

            A tiny smile crept onto her lips as she continued sorting through the pile. “Not my usual taste, but it will have to do,” she said as a pair of bellbottoms unfurled in her hands.

            “I have something else too,” Jaime said, crouching to pull the hair dye from the grocery bag. He tossed it over.

            “Black.” Sansa bit her lip. “You want me to die my hair…black.”

            Jaime smirked. “Not your usual taste?”

            She didn’t answer as she slowly turned the box over in her hands. “Do you really think it’s necessary?”

            “Sweetheart, once the word gets out that you’re missing, everyone from here to Los Angeles is gonna be lookin’ for a pretty girl with pretty red hair.”

            “Guess I’ll…get it over with, then.” She tried to muster a smile, but her face fell when glanced at the box again. Sansa picked out an outfit and stepped into the bathroom. After a minute, Jaime heard the shower turn on.

            As Sansa showered and did whatever you do with those boxed hair dyes, Jaime went to work sorting through the bags from the two stores. He quickly changed into a more comfortable outfit then packed the rest away in the duffle.

            The water shut off, then Sansa remerged with a plastic shower cap over her hair and a towel wrapped around her body. “The color has to process before I wash it out,” she informed him. Sansa stood awkwardly in the threshold, her eyes skirting over Jaime.

            “Hungry?”

            She finally met his eyes, and she nodded, blushing. Clutching her towel tightly, Sansa padded over food he’d set up. Jaime spread some peanut butter on a slice of bread, stuck another on top, and handed her the sandwich along with a water bottle.

             “Thank you,” she muttered.

            Jaime made another for himself, then leaned up against the windowsill while she perched on the corner of the bed. An aircon fan whirled somewhere in the walls, and a baby cried in the room next-door. She bit delicately into the sandwich as her cheeks grew redder and redder until a chuckle finally left Jaime’s lips.

            She turned sharply towards him. “What’s so funny?”

            Jaime ran a hand over his jaw. “It’s nothing,” he said, still smiling. “Just…everything. You and me here in this shitty motel room eating sandwiches while we wait for your hair to turn black.”

            Sansa glanced at her lap, but without her usual curtain of hair, Jaime saw the tiny smile on her lips. “I suppose it is quite unusual.” She lowered her sandwich and breathed out a sigh. “I meant what I said last night, Jaime,” she said softly. “I will…do whatever _this_ is, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

            “I understand.”

            “You won’t put anymore handcuffs on me, will you?” she teased, meeting his eyes.

            He chuckled. “No more handcuffs.” Jaime finished his sandwich, picked up the TV remote, and flicked it on. “Let’s see if anyone’s looking for you yet.”

            A grainy local news broadcast blared from the small screen, and they waited in nervous silence for story to switch over from the weather. Jaime sat on the opposite corner of the bed, careful not to glance her way even with the _very_ tempting towel showing off her shoulders and legs. After half an hour of nothing but reminders of the hot July sun and some local bank robber, Sansa stood abruptly up. “I better go wash this off,” she sighed.

            As the shower ran, then a blow-dryer blasted, Jaime tried to watch more of the news, but with no signs of either himself or Sansa, he flicked it off as Sansa reemerged from the bathroom. “My mother would kill me,” she said, her voice filled with dread.

            He looked over, and a grin spread across Jaime’s face. She’d dressed in the little pair of shorts and a baggy t-shirt, but it wasn’t her legs catching Jaime’s eye. Sansa had blow-dried her hair into a shining sheet of jet-black mane. Against the paleness of her skin and her icy-blue eyes, she looked like the terrifyingly beautiful creatures from the storybooks he used to read as a kid. “Wow…you look…”

            Sansa plopped down beside him on the bed. She swept her hair in front of her shoulder and stared glumly down as it ran through her fingers. “Awful?”

            “No you look…mysterious,” he suggested.

            Sansa fell back onto the mattress with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t want to look mysterious,” she told him. “I just want to go home.”

            Jaime laid back against the bed. He rolled over on his side to keep watching her. A dark lock had fallen across her cheek, and Jaime began to reach for it before he pulled his hand away. She wouldn’t want him touching her like that anymore. It was as if their kiss never happened—as if none of it ever happened. It was fair, of course, but that didn’t mean Jaime didn’t still long to touch her.

            He wished he could tell her he’d bring her home, bring her back to her mom and dad and siblings. Back to Winterfell before Jaime had ever spotted her across the gravel street. Instead, Jaime shifted onto his back and sighed. “I know,” he answerd quietly.

            _I know._

            For lunch, Jaime cooked pasta from a box and sauce from a can. The little stove grumbled and smoked at first, and the pot that came in the cabinet was missing half the handle, but in the end he managed to make something that resembled a meal. With no table, they were forced to eat on the carpet in front of the bed—Sansa had very loudly proclaimed that Jaime would spill sauce all over the sheets if they sat on the bed. Jaime grumbled, but agreed. She was probably right, after all. It was all strangely domestic, sharing a meal with Sansa. For half an hour, they could pretend everything was all right.

            While they ate and afterwards, they kept turning on the television in hope or fear that the news anchor would finally mention a missing red-haired girl or even a tall man with chin-length golden hair. But every time they turned the TV on, no one mentioned either of them. Jaime figured that his family was still expecting him to show up with Sansa at the summer house. As for Sansa, she was eighteen now, and the police might want to wait before declaring her a missing person. Even if the Starks did go to the Sheriff, the Lannisters had close ties with the police department, and any missing person report would stay out of the news for at least a little while.

            “Jaime?” He looked over to the open bathroom door. Sansa didn’t look up from washing their dishes in the sink. “We’re going to need fake names, right?”

            Jaime pressed up from the floor and joined her in the bathroom. He dried the dishes as she handed them over. “Suppose so.”

            Sansa twisted to face him, her hands on the counter behind her. “What do you think of Alayne?”

            “Fitting,” he said, setting the last bowl down beside her.

            “Really?”

            Jaime smirked down at her. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

            Sansa’s cheeks turned pink, and she rolled his eyes. He was pretty sure she was starting to figure out when Jaime complimented her just for the fun of seeing her blush. “What’s your fake name? Mister I Kidnap Girls After I Kiss Them?”

            He laughed and crossed his arms in fake indignation. “It’s…” he said, thinking. “Kevin.”

            “Kevin?”

            “What, you ain’t a fan of my name? It’s my uncle’s, thank you very much.”

            Sansa pursed her lips. “It’s a little…old for you, don’t you think?”

            “That’s because I am old,” he pointed out.

            Sansa wacked him in the arm. “No you’re not.” She jumped up slightly and settled on the counter. A grin teased her lips, and she shook back her black mane. In the reflection, it rippled behind her, brushing against her waist like a curtain of gleaming oil.

            “Sweetheart, how old do you think I am?” he asked. His hands settled on the counter on either side of her, and he leaned forward with a questioning look.

            She bit her lip. “Thirty?”

            “Close.”

            “Forty?”

            “Forty!” Jaime chuckled. “I’m thirty five, sweetheart.”

            “Wow. I can’t believe I kissed an old man.” As soon as she said it, a flush rushed up her face, and she glanced down at her dangling feet. That tension that liked to settle between them came back, thick and heavy. With a small sigh, Jaime straightened up and leaned back against the wall. “I’ve been thinking about what we do next,” Sansa said quietly, all teasing gone from her voice. “We can’t just keep running forever.”

            Jaime frowned. “You got a better idea?”

            “Petyr Baelish.”

            _Baelish?_ Jaime didn’t know much about the man other than he owned Harrenhal and hosted the debutante balls now. Baelish was already a senior when Jaime started high school, and the man hadn’t been back to Westeros other than the occasional event since graduating. “I don’t really know him, but I’ve heard my father mention that he owns a hotel outside of Atlanta. Or used too, at least. That’s why he’s never in town anymore.” He tilted his head. “Why would we go to Baelish?”

            “At the ball last night, he came up to me. Said if I ever needed help that I could go to him.”

            “And you think we can trust him?”

            Sansa tucked her hair behind her ear. When her eyes lifted back up, Jaime saw a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. Jaime was sure she saw the same reflected back in his own. “What else are we supposed to do?” she asked, almost desperately. “We need to get out of Virginia, Jaime. We might as well go south.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Jaime, Jaime...Idk why but I had a lot of trouble with this chapter, but once we get on the road again things get really fun and 70s. I'd love to hear your thoughts on Jaime's reckless or about anything else! Thanks for reading, and thanks to the people who wished be luck on the internship.


	10. Rich Girl

****

**Monday July 18, 1977**

            Jaime was already awake and standing by the window when Sansa finally sat up from the crumpled bed. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and yawned. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

            “My car.”

            “Your car?” She stepped over to him, and Jaime lifted the blinds higher so she could see out. The sleek, black Mustang was just as they left it. The silver hubcaps flashed in the sun. “Looks great to me.”

            Jaime dropped the blinds with a sigh. “That’s why I have to get rid of her.”

            _That_ woke her up. “Seriously? You love that thing.” When he shot her a questioning look, Sansa rolled her eyes. “It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? And besides,” she said, her gaze flicking down to his Levi’s, leather belt, and tucked-in white t-shirt ensemble, “You think that car makes you look cool.”

            Jaime chuckled, then reached out to pluck the collar of Sansa’s loose t-shirt. She had slept in one of the ones Jaime bought for himself, and the hem just brushed the tops of her thighs. Sansa blushed—she hadn’t worn that horrible strapless bra to bed last night, and she was painfully aware of how he could see the outline of her breasts beneath the worn fabric. “You should get dressed,” he told her, before turning away. Jaime began packing up their things. “The place we’re going to get rid of her is a little far out of out way.”

            What Sansa hadn’t realized that morning was just how far out of the way Jaime insisted on going. After pulling away from the motel, he took the highway east and didn’t pull off for another two hours. They sat in comfortable silence as Jaime drove, the windows cranked down, the radio blasting disco tunes she refused to let Jaime switch off of. The wind pushed back her hair, and whenever Sansa caught a glimpse of herself in the side-view mirror, her eyes widened in surprise. Jaime may have said he liked the black, but Sansa wasn’t so sure. _I look like a witch,_ she mused as a long, dark tendril was pulled out against the hot blue sky. _Or a ghost._ Pale as she was, the black contrasted so dramatically that Sansa was sure it would turn even more heads than her red did. As a redhead, at least, Sansa felt a little more comfortable with the stares.

            There was nothing comfortable about any of it, though. Here she was, listening to music beside the man who tied back her hands only a day ago. The night of the ball was still fresh in her mind—Jaime’s kisses, his roughness, his fear. Jaime had been terrified and angry and reckless that night, but that didn’t make up for the way he’d handled her. Jaime kissed her to make her compliant, then used that trust to shove her in his car.

            Sansa glanced sideways at him—with his sunglasses on, his expression was hard to read. He mouthed along to “Dancing Queen,” completely unaware to her watching him. This was the Jaime she’d grown to care about: easily handsome, arrogantly charming, innocent when he wanted to be. The Jaime who’d kissed her confused her. He was the one who forced her into a car. He was the one who almost went through with his family’s plan. Now she understood _why_ he had to do it, but that didn’t mean that the dangerous man wasn’t still lurking inside. Sansa had seen what Jaime Lannister was capable of. She was terrified to see that man come out again. 

            After another twenty minutes of drifting down the highway, Jaime pulled off towards one of those towns littered with car dealerships, dingy burger joints, and a strip of ambiguous, cramped offices. They entered a lot empty save for one white Chrysler that looked like the kind of car her grandparents would have owned. Jaime parked in front of the brick building. Sansa gazed uneasily up at the tinted windows as she read from the sign painted onto the dark glass. “Spider Trading. You bring it, we sell it, no questions asked.” She turned to Jaime as he pocketed the keys. “Seriously? You’re going to sell it _here?_ They’ll never give you a fair price!”

            Jaime smirked and stepped out. “Sure am, sweetheart.” Sansa had no choice but to follow him as he crossed over and yanked open the front door. The place was covered from popcorn ceiling to yellow linoleum floor in junk—refrigerators without doors, mannequins missing limbs, cassette tape without the cassettes, a silver jukebox sputtering out a warped version of Mama Cass’s “Make Your Own Kind of Music.”

            Jaime leaned in towards Sansa’s ear. “Varys is the only man in this state I’d trust with her.”

            Sansa frowned and was about to ask who Varys was when a pudgy, bald man in an obscenely purple, pinstripe suit came sauntering out of a back doorway covered in hanging, glittery beads. “Do my eyes deceive me, or did Jaime Lannister just walk into my humble shop?” Varys called out. He stopped before him, and his hooded eyes dipped first over Jaime, then Sansa. She shifted uncomfortably when a shy smile spread over the man’s lips. “And who might your little…friend be?” he asked, meeting Jaime’s eyes.

            “Alayne,” Sansa answered quickly.

            “Wonderful, Alayne. Such a pleasure to meet you.”

            “Varys,” Jaime said, a little sharply. The man looked back over to him. “We’re in a bit of a rush.”

            “Oh?” Varys’s eyes widened. With that shiny, bald head, Sansa thought he looked quite like an affronted egg.

            “I have a car you’ll be interested in trading me for.”

            Varys pursed his lips. “I will, will I? He gazed at them a moment longer, then brushed past to peer out the front door. His hands clapped with a sticky sound. “I _will_.” Varys turned and let the door slam shut, and just like that a serious expression took hold of his wobbly, hairless chins. “What is she—a 1969? And a convertible too? Oh, Jaime, you _must_ have a good reason if you want to sell her to the likes of me.

            Jaime’s jaw hardened. “Enough of your games, Varys. I know you know why I want to sell the car, and I know you know who she is.” he snapped, glancing at Sansa.

            A look of surprise crossed Varys’s face. “Pardon?”

            “Jaime,” Sansa said, hoping he’d catch her warning. She hardly thought they could trust this… _junk_ dealer with their secret. Jaime slid a steadying hand onto her back, but his eyes were still on Varys.

            Varys’s surprise faded into a sly smile. “Fine, fine—no games. If you insist,” he said pointedly. He moved to stand behind the counter beside the door and began rummaging through a metal filing cabinet. “If it’s a boring getaway car you and Miss Stark want, then I suppose I could oblige,” he tutted, tossing papers over his shoulder.

            “Jaime, how does he…”

            Jaime’s hand slid away. “It’s his business to know everyone else’s,” he muttered.

            “Quite right,” Varys piped up.

            “But can we trust him?” she asked, frowning up at Jaime.

            “Varys is only interested in helping himself,” Jaime told her. “Burning bridges won’t get you far around here. He’s smart enough to know that.”

            “Jaime, you flatter me,” Varys called out. He pulled out a file and began flipping through it.

            Jaime ignored him. “And he doesn’t like getting too involved in any one house’s business—meaning he’s not about to turn around to my father after helping me.”

            Sansa’s frown deepened. “But you’re still a Lannister.”

            Varys’s hands settled on a file, and he looked between them with something akin to sadness. “And you’re a Stark, my dear. I’m helping your Lannister friend _because_ he’s with you. You must understand, Sansa—the only hope for any of your kind is to get far, far away from that dreadful town.” He flicked open the file and pulled out a sheet. “The age of the Great Houses is going to be over, and soon. If there’s anyone I want to make friends with, it’s people like you two. People smart enough to put aside their differences and get out before it’s too late.”

            Sansa glanced up at Jaime. He stared down at her with a pensive look. Sansa dragged her eyes back to Varys. “So you’ll take the car?” she asked him.

            He handed Jaime the piece of paper in his hand. “No, my dear. I’ll trade you for it.”

 

            Jaime and Sansa stared back at the new car. His beautiful, gleaming black Mustang had bought them…

            “A rusted ‘65 Ford pickup,” said Jaime sullenly.

            “The color could be worse,” Sansa offered. _But not much worse._ The truck was a dull shade of brown that complimented the rust stains quite nicely.

            “How?” Jaime let out an exasperated sigh, then glared at the keys in his hand. The old owners had left a palm tree keychain attached.

            Sansa stifled a giggle with her hand, then gave Jaime’s arm a playful shove. “Come on, Jaime,” she called out as she pulled open the passenger side door. “Let’s see what your baby cost you.”

            She was still smiling when Jaime finally slid in beside her. The truck squeezed two leather benches into the body of the car, a feature Sansa was grateful for. As Jaime began fiddling with the radio, Sansa stretched out her denim-clad legs until Jaime snapped at her to keep her feet to herself. Laughing, Sansa cranked down her window and took control of the stereo as Jaime drove off towards the highway.

            This time, they were headed south.

 

            The had just passed another sign for the Tennessee border—forty miles this time—when “Rich Girl” came on. A grin broke over Jaime’s face, and he began to sing with a wild abandon that caused her eyebrows to shoot up.

            “ _You’re a rich girl, and you’ve gone too far_ —c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, glancing her way. “Don’t you know the words?”

             “I think you’ve got it covered,” she answered, trying to bite back her smile.

            “ _You can rely on the old man’s money. You can rely on the old man’s honey_ ,” he sang, even louder this time.

            “I’m not singing!” she insisted with a laugh. Somewhere between Varys’s shop and now, Sansa had slid closer towards him on the slippery bench, and Jaime’s arm was looped casually behind her shoulders.

            “What’s the fun in that?” he asked, before throwing himself back into the song.  His fingers playfully began to poke at her shoulder, and a sour taste rose in her mouth. It was too easy to fall back into the way they were before—especially on Jaime’s part. To him, he was her knight in shining armor. But Sansa couldn’t forget how he got there so easily.

            The memory of the zip ties crunching her wrists together sent a shiver down Sansa’s spine, and she shifted away. Jaime glanced towards her. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing. I don’t want to sing.”

            The song filled the truck until Jaime pressed in the button on the stereo. Air rushed in the cracked windows, but even that couldn’t fill the tense silence that had fallen between them. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, more firmly this time.

            “No.”

            “So something is wrong.”

            “ _No_.”

            Jaime sighed. “Sweetheart, how am I supposed to apologize when I don’t know what I did?”

            Sansa’s head fell back in frustration, and she yanked back her windswept hair. “It’s nothing! It’s just I _told_ you that it’s gonna take me a while to trust you again, yet here you are trying to make me sing songs with you like we’re on a goddamn road trip!” She chanced a glance his way. Jaime’s jaw was set in a hard line.

            “I didn’t mean to…” he muttered. “It ain’t easy remembering we’re not friends anymore.” His grip tightened on the wheel.

            “Where we ever?”

            His brows raised. “Maybe not.”

            At least he was being honest. They’d always been something else…too drawn to each other to be friends, too much like strangers to make it romantic. _But who knows if Jaime thinks the same thing._ For all she knew, their kisses at the ball could have just been a way to get her into that back parking lot. “Can I ask you something?” she said softly. When he didn’t answer, Sansa took a breath and said, “Those times you pushed me away…at the Targaryen manor, in the rain…was it because of your family or because of me?”

            He was silent for a moment. The wind enveloped them, pushed back his hair and sent it flying. His t-shirt rippled against his chest, giving her a glimpse to the tanned, taunt muscles of his chest. “Both,” he said finally, uncertainly.

            _Both._ She was happy for an answer, but even after all he’d put her through, the word stung like a bitch.

 

            By the time they crossed the border into Tennessee, their headlights cut hard and golden across the countryside, illuminating empty fields and an even emptier, dusty road. A sign rushed past with some town’s name Sansa had never heard of, but the longer they drove, the longer she realized that there wasn’t a motel in sight. Farmhouses, a church, a brick school building covered in vines—the buildings stared tauntingly back at them in the dark, and it wasn’t until Jaime passed yet another decrepit home without even a light in the window that she finally spoke up. “Jaime, we’re just going to have to pull over for the night,” she said gently. “You’re exhausted.” She gazed nervously at the way his eyes kept blinking shut, slower and slower for the last hour behind the wheel.

            “I should get you to a motel,” Jaime insisted.

            “What motel?” She took a steadying breath, then put her hand on his arm. Jaime slowed to a stop in the middle of the road, and he looked towards her with a surly expression. “Let’s park at that old church a mile back. We can sleep in the truck.” Unlike the Mustang, this one had two benches, each just wide and long enough for a person to lay across.

            “I don’t like it,” he muttered. But he pressed on the gas anyway, and with a metallic _clank_ the truck liked to make, he turned them around and headed back towards the church. When they pulled into the gravel lot, the headlines cast the small, white building in a pool of yellow. The wooden planks of the steeple were half rotted, half covered in a thin layer of peeling paint. Sansa couldn’t tell if it was still in use, but she didn’t like the idea of breaking into a church for the night, abandoned or not. Apparently Jaime had the same idea, and as soon as he parked and pulled the keys from the ignition, he made no move to get out and investigate.

            They sat there like that for a moment, their breathing filling the cramped quarters of the truck as they gazed out to the dark trees surrounding the parking lot. Finally Sansa reached for the grocery bag by her feet, and she pulled out two sandwiches she’d packed before leaving the motel.

            “Thanks,” Jaime said when she handed it to him.

            “Welcome.”

            They fell again into silence as they ate—it made her nervous, this quiet tension pulling between them. She knew it was partly because of her earlier outburst, but she willed herself not to be bothered by it. Jaime obviously didn’t care about her like she once thought. He’d made that clear enough.

            After eating, Sansa jumped out of the truck only to climb into the back seat. She stretched out across the bench, shifting in an attempt to get comfortable. Eventually she wound up on her side, curled into herself as much as the narrow bench allowed. The leather of the front bench kept squeaking as Jaime still struggled to find a good position. With his height and build, she knew sleeping in the truck was far less appealing to him than it was to her, but Jaime offered no complaints.

            Her brain felt too heavy, and sleep came unsteadily. She kept drifting awake from the cool air washing through the cracked windows, the scratch of branches as they swayed in the wind. But it was the scream that jolted her awake—a strangled, tortured cry from the woods beyond.

            “Jaime?” She sat up and peered over the back of the front bench. He was beginning to stir.

            “What’s wrong?” he murmured. Another scream ripped through the air, and Jaime jerked upright. “What is that?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

            She shook her head. “It sounds—”

            Whatever it was cried again. Sansa flinched. Jaime’s eyes darkened, then he rummaged through the duffle bag below his feet. He jammed the key in the ignition and flicked on the headlights. Jaime shoved the door open and stormed out towards the tree line. Sansa followed.

            Something silver glinted in Jaime’s hand, and when she moved to stand beside him, her eyes widened on the gun. “Why do you have a gun?” she demanded.

            Jaime hardly gave her a glance. “Why do you think?” he snapped. Jaime stalked off towards the trees as the thing screamed again, louder this time. It was getting closer.

            “Jaime what…” They both skidded to a halt. A fox stood frozen in the beam of the headlights, its jaws stretched wide as it screamed. Blood streaked down its leg, and when Sansa squinted, she saw a slick wound cutting into its mangled thigh.

            “Get behind me,” Jaime growled. He lifted his gun. The creature hissed.

            Sansa bit back a laugh. “Come back to the truck,” she said lightly, trying not to sound as amused as she was. Jaime made a funny picture though, pointing a gun at the poor thing with a church looming behind them. “It’ll leave us alone,” she added, when Jaime didn’t move.

            Slowly, he lowered his gun, and just like that the fox slinked off into the trees. “This wouldn’t happen in a motel,” he reminded her bitterly.

            This time she did laugh. Jaime whipped around. She covered her mouth just in time, but his eyes still narrowed on her. “Jaime, what do you plan to do with that thing?” she asked, nodding to the gun now held loosely by his side.

            Jaime tucked it into his waistband. “It’s to protect you.” An edge still clung to his voice.

            “What? You’re going to shoot someone for me?”

            “Well it ain’t for decoration, sweetheart.” Jaime stepped towards her, but he stopped a few inches away. He stared down at her, his eyes flashing in the warm glow of the headlights. “I’d do anything to keep you safe,” he murmured. “If that means shooting a bastard, then I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

            Sansa swallowed, and her eyes darted down to his lips. Quick breaths rushed out, washing over her face. An urge to kiss him filled her, and she began to press up onto her tiptoes when her eyes fell back down to the handle of the gun sticking out of his jeans. A familiar wave of fear rippled down her spine, and she sank back down to her heels. Jaime confused her. Jaime scared her. Part of her wanted to sink into his arms like the night of the ball. Another wanted to run far, far away and never look back. Only one of those options was possible, but not yet. Not when the memory of his betrayal was still stung fresh in her mind.

            The wind licked a strand of hair across her mouth. She saw Jaime’s fingers begin to lift, but she brushed the aside the hair before he could do it for her. “We should get some sleep,” she whispered, turning back towards the truck. His footsteps followed her, then his arm reached out to pull her door open before she could grab it herself. “Thanks,” she muttered. But Jaime’s eyes were on the bed of the truck, and a faint smirk played on his lips. “What?” she asked with a frown.

            “Maybe we could get sleeping bags and pillows someday. Sleep out here beneath the stars,” he said, patting the metal wall of the tuck bed.

            “I’d like that,” she answered quietly, before climbing back to her bench. Jaime stepped up into his own, and they both settled back into their awkward sleeping positions. The idea of sleeping out there with Jaime was a pleasant thought, but how possible was it? How long would they be on the run together?

 _It can’t last forever, can it?_ she wondered as she closed her eyes. Sansa sighed. It was all so strange, so confusing. It made her head spin. Maybe sleep would help with that.

            Leather creaked. “Sansa?” Jaime whispered.

            “Yeah?” she answered, not opening her eyes.

            “I lied earlier.”

            “About what?”

            She heard a shaky breath escape his lips. “I didn’t push you away because of anything you did,” he said, his voice soft, barely a whisper now.

            Sansa stiffened. “Then why did you?” she asked hesitantly.

            “I was afraid,” Jaime breathed back. “Afraid of what caring about you might do to me.”

            _But that…that means he does care for me, doesn’t it?_ The revelation pounded through her head. Sansa squeezed her eyes tighter until rainbow specks swam before her in the darkness. Jaime said no more, and Sansa was lulled to sleep by the current of her own thoughts, and eventually, dreams of sweet Magnolia trees in the rain.

 

**Tuesday July 19, 1977**

            She woke up to dawn light streaming in from the east, but it was Jaime’s groan that made her sit upright. He was already awake, his arm curled awkwardly around towards his right shoulder. “You ok?” she asked.

            Jaime grimaced. “This damn truck ain’t the best for an old man’s back.” He dropped his arm and sighed. “Ready to go?"

            Sansa pressed her lips together. She hardly felt her best—maybe a bit stiff—but Jaime was clearly trying to hide his soreness. She opened her door, stepped around to the front of the truck, and slid in beside Jaime. When he twisted back to face the wheel and fish his keys from his pocket, Jaime hissed in pain.

            “Are sure you’re fine?”

            “Just peachy, sweetheart.”

            She rolled her eyes. Jaime twisted the key in the ignition, and another, harder grimace crossed his face. “Turn around,” she said, folding her legs beneath her to sit on her knees.

            He chuckled. “Excuse me?”

            “You heard me.”

            A look of amusement crossed his face, but after a moment Jaime shoved back his sleep-mussed hair and turned his back towards her. “What, you’re gonna give be a backrub?”

            Again, she rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see. “Just shut up and sit still,” she told him, flushing when he barked out a laugh. Jaime _enjoyed_ pushing her buttons, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in any real pain. Sansa had seen the way her father groaned over his back. Her mother would always force him into a chair while she rubbed out whatever muscle was causing the problem.

            As Sansa set to work kneading his shoulder with the heel of her hand, she became painfully aware of how close they were, how his thin t-shirt clung to the broad muscles of his back in the summer heat. The hem had lifted up, revealing a strip of skin above his supple belt. Two lines creased in a V-shape on either side of his spine before disappearing below his waistband. She tried not to stare, but when Jaime began to groan under her touch, she gently tugged the fabric down. She did _not_ need to see that right now, not when everything was still so jumbled in her head. “Feel better?”

            He mumbled an enthusiastic _yes_. “Fuck,” he muttered. Sansa felt his muscles stiffen, and he twisted back to glance at her. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

            She pushed him firmly back around. “Jaime, I am on the run with a criminal after escaping a plot to destroy my family. I think I’m beyond swooning over foul language.”

            “Ex-criminal,” he corrected.

            Sansa smiled. She dug once more into his shoulder, then let her hands fall back down. “How’s that?”

            Jaime gave his shoulder a swing. “Peachy.” He turned back around, popped his sunglasses free from the overhead holder, and gripped the gear stick. “Ready for a drive, baby?”

            She busied herself with cranking down the window to hide her blush. “Let’s go.”

            The truck roared to life as Sansa’s stomach growled. Her cheeks grew hotter, and when she peeked over at Jaime she saw his usual smirk plastered to his face. “Breakfast first.”

            “Breakfast first,” she agreed with a small smile.

 

            Sansa’s face lit up as the golden arches of a McDonalds appeared over the treetops. There wasn’t one anywhere near Westeros, and it wasn’t as if her mama liked taking her kids out for fast-food. Once they’d pulled up to the nearly-empty parking lot, Jaime cut the music, cut the gas, and walked around to pull her door open. He offered her a hand.  _It is a longer way down,_ Sansa mused as she let him pull her from the truck. He was just being polite—she deserved as much after the hell he’d put her through.

            _I was afraid._ Jaime’s tired words from last night flew through her brain as they walked up to the restaurant’s shiny metal door. _Afraid of what caring about you might do to me._ They stepped inside, and Sansa gazed around at the off-white linoleum floor, the bands of yellow and red tiles encircling the walls. It was empty save for them, but a tray of holding a half-eaten breakfast sandwich sat untouched on a corner table. _What does he mean, afraid of caring?_ A girl emerged from the kitchens in a red and white collared shirt. She adjusted the pointed hat sat atop her ash-blonde curls, then smiled and set down the pot of black, steaming liquid in her hand. “Morning,” she called out cheerfully.

            The scent of coffee shoved the thoughts right from her mind, and Sansa smiled back. Jaime began walking towards the girl when Sansa caught his arm. “I’m going to wash up,” she said, nodding towards the hallway leading off to the restrooms. She’d been to embarrassed to pee outside the truck last night, so now she _really_ had to go.

            “You ready to order?” he asked, glancing up at the menu.

            “Whatever looks good.” She didn’t wait to see if he had anymore questions before scurrying off towards the bathroom. Afterwards when she went to wash her hands, Sansa startled at her reflection. Her dark hair was tangled on the side she’d slept on, and her peasant blouse was wrinkled beyond saving. She’d have to change after breakfast.

            With a sigh, Sansa dried her hands, tossed the paper in the garbage, and pushed back into the restaurant. She began to walk back towards the main area when the door to the men’s restroom suddenly flung open. A great hulk of a man stepped out—his wide face was pinched into a creased scowl, the veins running up his arms bulged grotesquely, and his torso was wide as a tree trunk. The man towered above her, and as her eyes drifted up and up and up, she realized with a shock that he was glaring right at her.

            Her heart hammering, Sansa cast her eyes to the floor and began to skirt around him, but the man stepped in front, completely blocking her path. The hallway was so narrow that she couldn’t see Jaime, and he couldn’t see her. Sansa considered screaming for help, but the man wasn’t _doing_ anything—his eyes traveled her up and down, almost cautiously. Then his hand reached out, and he picked up a lock of black hair. Sansa flinched. Fear coursed through her, freezing her on the spot. The hair slipped through his massive fingers.

            He grunted, then let go.

            Sansa took a deep, shuddering breath. “Excuse me,” she stammered. The man didn’t move, so she was forced to squeeze past, her shoulders brushing his hard torso. As soon as she emerged from the hallway, Sansa looked hurriedly around for Jaime. He carried a tray over to a plastic booth. She ran to him.

            “Jaime, there’s a man and I think he knows me—”

            “What?” He turned around, the tray nearly slipping from his hands.

            Sansa turned too, but the door to the restaurant was already swinging shut. The man was gone. “He was there, Jaime! He blocked me getting out of the restroom.” Sansa raked back her hair. “God, he picked up my hair…”

            Jaime’s brows shot up. “He touched you?” Anger dripped from his low voice, and Jaime made to throw the tray aside before Sansa took it from his hands.

            “No,” she said. “Just my hair, then he let me go.” Jaime stalked over to the window—Sansa glanced at the counter to see the cashier gazing nervously at them. Sansa bit her lip, then shifted the tray into one hand while she went over and grasped Jaime’s with the other.

            “He’s gone,” Jaime muttered, ignoring her touch.

            Sansa tugged at his fingers. “C’mon. Let’s just go before he comes back.” She glanced at Jaime’s hips, and sure enough she saw the bulge of the gun beneath his wrinkled shirt. She moved closer, turning her back to the counter. “Please, Jaime,” she said, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “You can’t do anything here.”

            “Fine,” he snapped, turning away from the window. His eyes flashed, and she stepped reactively back. Sansa supposed he noticed her fear, because his gaze softened, and he squeezed her fingers gently before dropping her hand. “Go to the truck and lock the doors.” He glanced at the tray, and Sansa finally noticed the two cups of coffee sitting beside a box of what smelled suspiciously like flapjacks. “I’ll get this packed up.”

            She breathed out a sigh—no matter _who_ that man was, causing a stir when they were still pretty close to Westeros wouldn’t do any good. Jaime pulled the car keys from his pocket, then pressed them into her palm. His fingers grazed her wrist as he pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd wait longer to update so I would have time to write ahead, but I couldn't help myself! And ya'll...next chapter is a BIG ONE. I mean in terms of the sprawling 8700 words I've written so far, but other things too... :) Stay tuned.


	11. Mockingbird

           

            “Jaime?”

            “Sansa?” he teased with a smirk. His eyes didn’t waver from the road—they’d finally reached the morning Tennessee traffic. Bumpers and silver rims glinted back at him in the sunshine, orange and green and black. A yellow Mustang drove lazily past, and Jaime’s smile fell. He missed his car.

            “What ever happened to Joffrey at the ball?”

            _Right._ Jaime ran his tongue over his teeth, then twisted down the volume on the stereo. The truck’s old owner had left them well-worn tapes of every Supertramp album since ‘70, and they’d been listening and chatting sporadically since leaving the McDonalds. Matters concerning the debutante ball had so far been avoided.  “I, uh…locked him in a third floor servant’s bedroom.”

            “What?” Sansa asked, laughing in disbelief. “How’d you get him up there?”

            “Well…” He eased on the brakes as they came to a standstill behind a Ford pickup in even worse shape than their own. He glanced away from its rust-red bumper to catch Sansa’s pretty smile. He was glad she was smiling again. “I may have slipped some extra juice into his fruit punch.”

            “Juice?” Her brows raised, framing her pointed look. When Jaime dragged his gaze back to the road, she _hmphed_. “Not that I encourage your bad behavior, but I am glad you kept him away.”

            Jaime feigned innocence. “Me? Bad behavior?”

            “Jaime Lannister,” she said, putting on a playful, southern drawl heavier than her own light accent. “I’d say you’re Westeros’s resident bad boy.”

            He grinned. “Yeah? And what does that make you?” He glanced her way. Sansa gazed out the front window, a tight smile on her lips.

            “I’m not too sure,” she said quietly.

            And just like that, tension settled back over them like a blanket. Snug and familiar, but too warm for a sweltering summer day.

 

            They arrived in Fingers, Georgia by late afternoon. Jaime knew Baelish’s hotel was somewhere in the little town outside Atlanta, but where exactly he couldn’t say. When Sansa had told him she wanted to go to Baelish, he’d agreed, but not happily. He didn’t like the idea of going to _anyone_ for help. But Sansa was right, of course—they had to eventually do something about the threat looming over the Stark family. Jaime was sure Tywin wouldn’t wait long to conjure up some new scheme, so they had to act first. If Sansa thought Baelish was the answer, then he owed it to her to at least give the man a shot.

            Their first stop was a seedy but seemingly safe-enough motel in the middle of town. _Main Street Motel,_ he read from the neon sign now dull beneath the sun. A drive-in movie theater sided up beside it, and a dive bar stared grimly back from across the street. Both appeared relatively unpopulated, and for that Jaime was grateful. The less people that saw them, the better.

            Sansa followed him into the sunflower-themed lobby, and they both eyed the bright yellow, flower-speckled wallpaper with mild interest. A greying woman stood behind the dark wood-paneled front desk, and she looked up from a newspaper as they entered. Jaime asked her for a room, but when she asked if they’d like a double or a single, he glanced back at Sansa.

            “Whatever’s cheaper,” she said lightly.

            He went with the single. They’d managed well enough the first time.

            After the woman handed him the keys, he leaned his elbows on the counter and asked casually, “You don’t happen to know where the Mockingbird is, do you?”

            The woman frowned. “Mockingbird, did you say?”

            Jaime nodded. “Maybe there’s a hotel here with that name? Or a man named Petyr Baelish?”

            Her wrinkles deepened. “I’m afraid not, dear. But I can assure you that the Main Street’s rooms are the finest in town.”

            Jaime very much doubted _that_ , but he thanked her regardless. Once they’d climbed up the rickety stairs to their third-floor room, Jaime set down their duffle bag and fell backwards onto the bed while Sansa went to change in the bathroom. After observing the old radio by the window and the rickety green stool beside it, he let his eyes roll upward. Jaime watched the fan whirl overhead and listened to the rustle of fabric, the pull of a hairbrush, the rush of the faucet, until Sansa finally stepped back out. Jaime gave her a once-over. She’d paired a tight, yellow t-shirt with a pair of light blue bellbottoms, and her hair now hung in a loose braid over her shoulder. _God she looks good_ , he thought, grinning. Apparently he’d chosen well that thrift shop. The black hair only heightened her looks, turning the innocence her red locks had given her into something recklessly, dangerously beautiful. Like this, Sansa Stark was irresistible.

            “You’re staring at me,” Sansa said hotly, crossing her arms.

            _You didn’t mind so much in  your bedroom window._ Jaime looked back to the fan. It circled lazily above him. “I thought you liked to be stared at,” he responded, smirking at the ceiling. He didn’t have to look over to know she burned a pretty shade of pink. He listened to her walk over to him, then the toe of her clog hit his shin. “Can I help you?” he asked in bored voice.

            She kicked him again, and this Jaime sat up, chuckling. “We need to figure out where the Mockingbird is,” she said curtly.

            “ _If_ it even exits, and _if_ Baelish is even back in Fingers.”

            “Well we’re not gonna find it sitting in here on our asses.”

            Jaime’s eyebrows shot up. “Foul language for a little lady.”

            Sansa jerked her foot forward to kick him, but this time Jaime’s hand darted forward to grab her ankle. He yanked her forward, and Sansa stumbled towards him on one leg. “Hey!” she complained, trying to wiggle free. But Jaime’s grip was too tight, and he pulled her towards him until his free arm could wrap around the backside of her knees. In one swoop, he scooped her into his arms and tossed her onto the mattress.

            Sansa yelped as the box springs sprang. “What was that for!” she growled, shoving back her braid.

            He smirked down at her. “Look who’s sitting on their ass now.” He cocked his head. “And that was for trying to kick me.”

            Sansa scrambled off the bed. “You’re impossible,” she said impatiently, storming off towards the door.

            Jaime followed out, and as she halted and waited for him to lock it, he noticed the grin threating to crack through her red-cheeked scowl.

           

            They set off wandering through the little town, asking the people who looked harmless enough. After an elderly couple shuffling along with matching canes, a kid blowing pink bubble gum outside the locked gates of the drive-in, and three mothers with toddlers clinging to their skirts all shook their heads at the mention of both the Mockingbird and Petyr Baelish, Jaime finally allowed them to check out the bar. He’d tried to avoid it, but with both daylight and their luck running out, Jaime relented. From his experience, men in bars liked to talk a little too much, and they liked to talk to pretty girls more than anything.

            As they stepped inside the dingy place, Jaime was surprised to see only a lone, dark-haired woman in an orange caftan at the counter and a sixty-something man behind it. Warm lights hung from the low ceiling, giving the otherwise dark space a yellow tinge. Pool tables and barstools sat untouched but covered in a sticky sheen. Jaime tried not to touch anything as they made their way to the bartender.

            “Afternoon,” Jaime called out.

            The man looked up from the glass he was wiping with a dirty rag. “Afternoon,” he replied in a gruff voice. He glanced between Jaime and Sansa, then _hmphed_. The woman glanced their way, then turned back to stirring her drink.

            Sansa stepped up. “I was hoping you could help us with directions,” Sansa said, smiling at the man. Her charm had been wasted on everyone else, but maybe it’d work here. She rested her elbow on the counter and cradled her chin between her slender fingers. “We’re trying to find the Mockingbird, but we got lost,” she said, giggling prettily.

            “Ain’t never heard of no Mockin’ bird,” he answered in a heavy southern twang. “Ya’ll want a drink instead?” He set down the glass. A lipstick stain decorated the rim.

            Jaime grimaced. “No thanks. We should get going.” He put his hand on the small of Sansa’s back to turn her around when the woman’s chair scraped back.

            “How old is she?”

            They turned to her, surprised, then glanced back at the bartender. He muttered something about wanting paying customers, then went off into the kitchen behind the bar.

            Jaime stepped in front of Sansa. “Why?”

            The woman raised her pointed chin. Dark, feathered hair framed her face; she had an elegant kind of beauty, a dangerous kind. Orange silk flowed from her tall, slender frame. The caftan billowed as she stepped towards them. “Are you eighteen yet?” she asked, her eyes on Sansa.

            “Yes…” Sansa answered hesitantly. “This June.” 

            “What of it?” Jaime asked curtly.

            The woman’s gaze snapped over to him. “He’ll pay a good price for her. He always pays more for the youngest ones.”

            “He?” Jaime frowned as an unsettled feeling grew in his stomach. “Do you mean Petyr Baelish?”

            “So you do know what I’m talking about.”

            Sansa stepped around Jaime—he reached out to stop her, but she ignored his touch. “We know Mr. Baelish. Is that who you’re talking about? Do you know where the Mockingbird is?”

            The woman raked Sansa back over with her dark eyes. Her lips pursed. “The man you speak of uses a different name here. Littlefinger.”

            Sansa’s eyes widened. She stepped back, almost stumbling into Jaime. “Littlefinger?” she whispered.

            Jaime had never heard the name before, but apparently Sansa had—he’d have to ask her later. “Does Littlefinger own the Mockingbird hotel?” he asked, drawing the woman’s attention away. He didn’t like the way she looked at Sansa, like she was product to be sold.

            A sharp laugh escaped the woman’s painted lips. “The Mockingbird is no _hotel_ , though it sits in the basement of one called The Fingers in town.”

            “Then what is it?” Sansa asked carefully, like she was dreading the answer.

            The woman’s eyes flashed. “A brothel.”

           

            “You can’t seriously still want to find him!” Jaime exclaimed, slamming the motel door shut behind him. “You just told me this is the same man who kidnapped the Targaryen girl!” Sansa sank down onto the bed and cradled her head in her hands as she stared down at the musty yellow carpet. Jaime sighed and crouched in front of her. Dark wisps of hair had escaped her braid. He reached up and brushed them behind her ear. Sansa didn’t move. “Sansa, we know what Baelish is now. We can’t trust him, and we don’t need his help.” Jaime cupped her cheek in his palm, gently forcing her to meet his eyes. “Let’s figure something else out,” he said softly.

            Sansa didn’t lean into his touch, but she didn’t flinch away either. “How? Are we supposed to keep driving forever?”

            “If that’s what it takes.”

            She turned her head to the side. Jaime pulled his hand away. “Why do you even care so much?” she whispered, her eyes focused on the bathroom door at the other end of the room. “About me?”

            _Because everything inside me wants to love you._ The realization came in like a flood. What had been a starved-off trickle rushed in, filling his lungs, crashing against his throat like a hand squeezing out air. If he allowed himself to drown in that love, to speak it out loud, there’d be no going back. “Why do you think?” he managed to choke out. Her gaze flicked back to him. Jaime’s cheeks felt too hot, and he stood, turned away so she couldn’t see how flustered she’d made him. “I’m going out to get us something to eat,” he muttered, moving over to the front door. “Stay here. We’ll figure out what to do when I get back.” He pocketed the room key, just in case, and stepped back out into the evening air. The door locked with a _click_ behind him.

            Jaime walked briskly over to the convenience store on the corner. He found himself gazing blankly at the aisles of food before he finally began to put items in his basket. When he reached the women’s haircare section, a box of auburn hair dye caught his eye. Jaime stepped back over to it, and he stared wistfully at the girl on the box. She was no Sansa, but the color was a pretty good match. _Maybe someday she can go back to it,_ he thought, brushing the cardboard woman’s hair with his finger. _Someday when we’ve driven far enough away that no one can find us._ It was a stupid dream, but he chucked it in the basket anyway. Just in case.

            As Jaime began unloading items at the check-out counter, the old man at the register twisted up the volume on the radio nestled between cases of cola and old magazines. Static buzzed, then a newscaster’s clear voice broke through. “Reports have just come in from Virginia that a young woman has been reported missing. Authorities describe the woman as having long, red hair, and she may be traveling with a man in his mid thirties. More at six.”

            Jaime froze. The hair dye fell from his hand with a _thud_.

            “You ok sir?” the cashier asked as he began to bag Jaime’s groceries.

            “F—fine,” Jaime stammered. He handed the cashier the dye box and averted his eyes. “When did that report come in?”

            The cashier sighed. “Bout an hour ago. Sad, ain’t it? Even our daughters ain’t safe no more.”

            Jaime swallowed and nodded brusquely. As soon as the cashier handed him back his full paper bag, he ducked out of the shop and practically ran back to the motel.

            _So my father finally did it._ If Tywin was allowing the news of Sansa’s disappearance to filter out through the media, then he must have given up hope that Jaime was still working with them. It either meant that Tywin had given up—or, more likely, that his father’s search would begin in earnest. They’d already had one encounter with a man likely working for Tywin back at the McDonalds. Jaime was sure more would come soon.

            As Jaime opened their door, the sound of a broadcast immediately hit his ears, and his eyes landed on Sansa sitting on the stool beside the radio. Her fingers fiddled idly with the volume, twisting it high, twisting it low.

            “You heard it too, then,” Jaime said as he closed the door. He set the groceries down by the duffle bag.

            Sansa flipped a switch, and the broadcast cut out with an electric fizzle. “What does this mean for us?” she asked, her wide blue eyes drifting over to him.

            Jaime sank down onto the bed. “Just that we have to be more careful. It won’t just be my father’s men after us, but the police too. We should be safe for now in Georgia, but…I don’t know how long it’ll last.”

            “And my family?”

            “They should be fine as long as no one finds us.”

            She nodded, picking up her braid. Sansa’s lips pressed together as she ran her fingers over the dark, silky strands. “The news kept mentioning my long red hair,” she said softly, thoughtfully. “No one would look twice at a girl with short, dark hair.”

            Jaime’s brows raised in surprise, and he ran a hand over the stubble coating his jaw. Sansa would get looks no matter how she styled her hair, but a shorter look might help a little. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

            Sansa sighed and dropped her braid. “I’m sure that my mother would kill me for cutting it short, but it’s already dyed black so I don’t really see the point trying to please her now.”

            Jaime nodded. “I’ll see if the front desk has any scissors.” He pushed up from the bed and dug around the grocery bag until he pulled out some of the food. His eyes fell on the hair dye, and with his back to Sansa, Jaime buried it in the bottom of the duffle. When he straightened back up, Jaime held out the bagels and a small tub of cream cheese he’d bought. “Hungry?”

            “Thanks.”

            “You know, I’m surprised you didn’t sneak out to find the Mockingbird while I was gone.”

            Sansa shrugged. “You said we’d figure something else out, right?” She took the bagels and cream cheese, then rose to her feet and pulled out a plastic knife from the packet on the dresser. Facing away like that, Jaime couldn’t see her face, but he sensed an uneasiness to her tone. Jaime thought about pressing the matter when she turned back towards him with a soft smile. “I trust you, Jaime.”

            The corner of his mouth twitched back in response. He didn’t know _how_ she could suddenly start trusting him again, but maybe it was a start. Maybe he was finally doing something right. “I’ll go see about those scissors,” he said, before slipping back out.

 

* * *

 

            Sansa had unwound her hair by the time Jaime came back with the scissors. Now it hung in gleaming black waves down to her waist, like the sea under the cover of night. _Or that lake at Harrenhal_ , Sansa mused as she ran her fingers down the length of it. For some reason, her eyes began to sting. She blinked, trying to clear the pain away. It was just hair, the same hair she’d had her whole life. She was a different person now. Maybe it was time for a change.

            Jaime set a silver pair of shears down on the dresser, then asked her to wet her hair as he spread a layer of newspapers nicked from the lobby down on the dull yellow carpet. When she came back, dripping and cold, Jaime had dragged the stool into the center of the grey, paper rug. “Six thirty appointment?” he asked, snipping the shears into the air.

            She tried to smile and she sat down. “That’s me. What look do you think I should go for today?” she asked, hoping to sound teasing. She knew Jaime was just trying to set her at ease—she might as well try to play along.

            Jaime’s large hands gently pulled her hair over her shoulders so it hung heavily down her back. “Something shorter, perhaps,” he said in a low voice. He picked up the hairbrush from the dresser, then put a steadying hand on her shoulder while he set to work on the few tangles she’d missed. The weight felt good. Sansa missed it when his hand finally lifted to pick up the scissors. “Ready?” he asked quietly.

            She nodded and let out a shaky breath. “Not really,” she answered, laughing. She closed her eyes. “But we’ve already set the newspapers down.”

            She heard Jaime’s breath, felt it whisper over her neck. Then—

            _Snip._

            Sansa didn’t feel any different, but when she heard a soft brush on the paper below, she winced.

            _Snip._

            Another lock fell. A tear rolled down her cheek.

            _Snip._

            She had just turned seven when her mother lifted her up onto the porch railing and cut her hair for the first time. The honeysuckle hadn’t bloomed that year.

            _Snip._

Jaime worked for what could have been twenty minutes, what could have been two. But she knew he had finished when she felt his presence in front of her instead of behind. “How do I look?” she asked. Her eyes blinked open to find Jaime gazing thoughtfully down at her.

            “Good.”

            She frowned— _what the hell does “good” mean?_ “I look hideous.”

            “You don’t,” he retorted. “And you haven’t even seen it yet.”

            Sansa raised her hand to her roots and began to drag downwards. Her eyes widened in shock when her fingers emerged at her shoulder. “Oh my God.”

            Jaime chuckled, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Just come look in the mirror.” He led her into the bathroom as Sansa closed her eyes again, then when his hands settled on her shoulders, he said softly, “You have to open your eyes now, sweetheart.”

            She did, slowly, as if letting in the light would burn like the sun. A reflection began to appear until Sansa found herself staring back at a girl she hardly recognized. Her dark locks had been trimmed until the tips just brushed her shoulders. “Oh my God, I do look hideous,” she breathed out, running her fingers through it. As far as she could tell, it was surprisingly even. Behind her, Jaime gave their reflections an exasperated look.

            “Stop saying that.” Jaime leaned in closer over her shoulder. “You look beautiful.”

            She blushed, and the mirror did nothing to hide it. She turned, and Jaime’s hands slid away. “How does a man like you know how to cut hair?” she asked suddenly.

            “I suppose I’m just talented.”

            She smacked him lightly on the arm. Jaime smirked. “Come on. Tell me the truth,” she urged.

            A roughish smile spread over his lips. “Prison, actually.”

            “Prison!”

            “Afraid so,” he said, raking a hand through his own chin-length locks. “About a year into my sentence, they assigned me a work position cutting hair for criminals. None looked like you,” he said, and she blushed again. “But I made do.”

            She smiled at the idea of Jaime working in a hair salon. It was the last thing she’d ever expect from a man like him. “Well thank you,” she said, her voice dropping to a sincere softness. “You did a nice job.”

            “My pleasure.” Jaime glanced behind her to their reflections, then cleared his throat. “Any more of those bagels left?” he asked, stepping out of the bathroom.

            “Well I didn’t eat them all, if that’s what you’re asking.”

           

            Sansa couldn’t stop playing with her hair over the next few hours, not until Jaime playfully warned that he’d put the handcuffs back on if she didn’t quit it. Sansa relented, though not without shooting him a sour look. They alternated between listening to the radio, snacking on bagels and carrot sticks, and discussing their next move. Sansa let Jaime do most of the talking, instead nodding dutifully along when he launched into a plan about driving all the way to Canada. All she had to do was play along till nightfall, then Jaime’s fanciful plan of escaping to the frigid north wouldn’t matter anymore.

            All she had to do was wait until he fell asleep, then it was time to take matters into her own hands.

            At ten o’clock, she and Jaime climbed into their separate sides of the bed. At eleven, Jaime’s breathing had steadied, and his chest began to rumble with sporadic snores. She smiled as she watched him sleep. All the arrogance of the day had softened with the night, leaving behind a beautiful man at peace. A man who never went to prison, who never cared too much for the wrong girl. She was sure of that now, at least. Jaime cared too much, too much to let her go to the only man who could possibly help her and her family.

            Sansa slipped free from the covers and dressed quickly in her outfit from the day. She didn’t know what one was supposed to wear to a brothel, but hopefully they’d let her in regardless. Jaime had put the keys on his nightstand, and as she held her clogs in one hand, Sansa padded over to his side. He didn’t stir a she scraped them gently from the wooden surface.

            Once she made it out the motel’s front doors, it didn’t take long to spot The Fingers Hotel. The sign glowed a pale blue over the rest of the town’s buildings. After walking a half mile towards the sign, she halted. The hotel loomed in front of her, a sheet of new glass and white-washed bricks. A doorman guarded the front door, but she didn’t think that was the right way to go. The woman at the bar had said Baelish’s brothel was _beneath_ the hotel.

            Sansa walked around the side of the building, then she stopped again when her eyes landed on a man in a leather jacket standing outside a black door. He stared her down as Sansa approached, and she quickly put on her prettiest smile.

            “Get lost, girl,” he told her, crossing his huge arms across his chest.

            “I’m here for the Mockingbird.”

            He eyed her up and down, then laughed. “We ain’t hiring tonight, honey. Come back in the morning.”

            Sansa’s smile faltered, but she held her ground. Her short hair swung lightly as she held her chin higher, giving her an air of confidence she’d never known before. She didn’t feel like the long-haired, little girl she had always been. “I’m here to see Petyr Baelish,” she said curtly. “What’s your name? I’ll be sure to give it to him when he hears of how you’ve treated me.” It was a gamble, really—after finding out that no one in town knew the name Petyr Baelish, Sansa had surmised that Mr. Baelish didn’t use his real name with his underground business, at least not publicly. Anyone who knew the real Littlefinger had to be important enough to be let inside, even if they looked like a teenage girl.

            The man’s lips twisted together, then he stepped aside from the glossy, black door. “Get in before I change my mind,” he grunted.

            Sansa flashed him a smirk as she strode inside, but her expression soon faded to one of surprise when her eyes adjusted to the dim, faintly purple lighting, and her ears recognized the croon of a saxophone. It looked like a bar, only one bathed in satin, swimming in crystals. The glinting stones cascaded from geometrical chandeliers, hung in curtains from doorways leading into darkness. A man with a slick blue beard stood behind the counter, not paying Sansa any mind as he flipped a silver shaker for an audience of cooing, lavish women.

            Leather booths and glossy wood tables hugged the wall of the small room, and tonight most were full. Men both old and young lounged back with drinks in their hands and girls on their laps. The prostitutes, Sansa assumed, wore short columns of dark silk and glittering collar necklaces. Girls in similar, but longer dresses sauntered about with trays of glasses, and men and women alike plucked dark drinks away like grapes off a vine.

            Sansa looked towards one of the doorways shooting off from the corner, and a flash of platinum hair caught her eye. She began to move towards it in the crowd when a hand suddenly closed around her arm. Sansa whirled and found herself face to face with Mr. Baelish.

            “I thought it was you,” he said, drinking her in with his cold eyes. When his gaze drifted back to her face, he _tsked._ “The hair doesn’t suit you though, does it?”

            Sansa tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “I need to talk you,” she whispered. A girl brushed past them with a curious stare. “In private.”

            Mr. Baelish chuckled. “My employees are paid too well to talk, but we can go elsewhere if you insist.” He let go and turned sharply on his heel. “Come,” he commanded. He took off for one of the beaded doorways, and with one last wary glance around the bar, she followed. After pushing aside the strands of crystal, Sansa’s foot landed on a stair, and her eyes traveled up to see a whole staircase rising up to a gleaming wooden door at the top. She climbed carefully after Mr. Baelish, making sure to go slowly as not to slip on the polished wood. When she finally reached the narrow landing, he twisted the knob and pushed open the door. “After you.”

            Sansa found herself in a small office. If there were windows, they had been blocked out by heavy plum curtains, and the only light came from an elegant chandelier of glass and gold hanging low overhead. A tidy, old-fashioned desk sat squarely in the center of the room, with two plush, leather armchairs across from it. By the desk, a mirrored bar cart stood with a bottle of whiskey and two empty, crystal glasses.

            “Drink?” Mr. Baelish asked, wandering over to the cart.

            Sansa pursed her lips and fought the urge to push her hands in her jean pockets. She hated whiskey from the few times her father allowed her a sip, but Mr. Baelish might find her rude to decline. “Sure,” she answered, trying to sound casual. Sansa sank into one of the armchairs while he poured two glasses.

            After handing her one, Mr. Baelish took the high-backed chair on the other side of the desk. He studied her until Sansa squirmed, his finger running lightly over the rim of his glass. “Do you like it?” he asked suddenly, softly.

            “What?” She glanced down at the whiskey in her hands. “Oh.” She took a small sip. The liquor raced down her throat like fire, and she coughed, choking.

            Mr. Baelish chuckled, then took a delicate sip of his own. He swallowed it like water. “It’s an acquired taste, I’m afraid. And an expensive one at that.” His head tilted, and he swirled the dark liquid with his hand. “Why did you cut your hair, Sansa?”

            The question took her by surprise, and Sansa’s eyes widened before she managed to settle her face back into her well-practiced, pretty mask. “I think you know why, Mr. Baelish.” His brows raised, just slightly, before she continued on. “The night I met you, you told me that if I ever needed help, I should come to you. Does that offer still stand?”

            He set his drink down with a solid _clunk_. “Are you asking if I’ll help you keep your family safe from the Lannisters?” He waved her off when a surprised look crossed her face. “Of course I know, sweetheart. And as promised, I will gladly help you.”

            _Sweetheart._ The word dripped like honey from Mr. Baelish’s lips, but from him, it made her feel dirty. Sansa tried to push the feeling aside. “Please, Mr. Baelish,” she begged, scooting forward to the end of her chair. “I don’t know how, but I need help getting my family to safety. I’ll do anything to make sure they’re safe from that horrible family.” Guilt settled in her belly, but she thought it better to group Jaime with the rest of the Lannisters. He was one of them, after all. Even if he switched to her side at the last minute.

            Mr. Baelish looked up from where he was thoughtfully stroking the side of his glass. “Anything?”

            She nodded fervently. “I need to know that—that they won’t be hurt,” she whispered. Tears pricked her eyes, and when Mr. Baelish met her gaze, a tear rolled down her cheek. He tracked it with his glinting eyes, all the way until it darkened the collar of her yellow shirt.

            “What if I asked you to leave Jaime behind?”

            _What? How could he know…_ Sansa sniffed and wiped her face with the heel of her hand. “I don’t know—”

            “Don’t play with me, Sansa. I know more about the people in Westeros than you think,” he said tartly. “And I know he’s back in that motel room you snuck out of tonight.”

            She took a shuddering breath as her mind whirled. _Could I do that?_ she wondered desperately, wringing her hands in her lap. _Could I leave him?_

            The answer was obvious—she would do anything for her family. “If…if you promise me that Jaime will be safe too, then…then yes. I would leave him behind.”

            A satisfied smirk crossed Mr. Baelish’s face. He folded his hands above the desk. “Then we have a deal, sweetheart. Give me until tomorrow night, then come back here. _Alone_. Do you understand?” She nodded, then as Mr. Baelish rose to her feet, she stood too. He held out a hand. She took it.

            “Tomorrow night,” she repeated.

            His fingers tightened around hers, lingering too long, too hard. “I look forward to it, sweetheart.”

 

            As Sansa approached their motel room, her eyes drifted down to the strip of light beneath the door. _Shit._ Sansa’s fingers closed and twisted around the doorknob. She took a breath, braced for impact, and pushed.

            His head snapped towards her. Jaime sat on the end of the bed in his plaid boxers and thin t-shirt. The gun flashed silver in his hands. “Oh good,” he said quietly, dangerously. “I guess I won’t be needing this after all.” He turned the gun over in his hand, then reached across to set it on the dresser.

            The door locked behind her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her back against the door. She felt stuck, unable to venture further into the rage radiating from his tense shoulders, his rigid jaw. “Jaime, I—”

            He shut her up by storming across the room, halting just in front of her. “I _told_ you not to go to Baelish, and you think it’s all right to go off alone? In the middle of the goddamn night?”

            She glared up at him. Her chest heaved, her heart raced. “Why should I have to do what you want?” she bit back.

            Jaime’s eyes widened, and an incredulous look took over his face, lifting his brows, parting his lips. He pushed back his sleep-tousled hair, dragging his hands back over his head. “Baelish is a _pimp_ , Sansa. This isn’t about—about doing what I tell you to, it’s about making stupid decisions!”

            Sansa shoved past him—she couldn’t stand to look at him like this, not when her own anger and guilt and sadness were barely contained inside her chest. She felt like she would burst, yell, cry. All three at once. “That’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” she snapped, spinning back around. Her hair whipped against her cheek. “That I’m some dumb teenager stupid enough to fall for an asshole like you.”

            Jaime strode back up to her, but this time he kept his distance. A foot of air hung between them, thick with humidity, heavy with the weight of what just spilled from her mouth. “You’re the one who kissed me, sweetheart,” he sneered.

            It was blinding anger that caused her fingers to tremble, but it was the hurt that raised her hand up to strike him. Her palm flew at his cheek, but Jaime caught her wrist. He yanked her closer and inhaled sharply.

            _Will he hit me?_

            He raised his other hand. It tangled in her hair.

            Then she kissed him.

            And he let her.

            The kiss was soft despite his crushing grip, soft despite the anger coursing through her. It was the kiss she always imagined would be her first. Sansa’s knees buckled as he sank down into her mouth, and she gasped. When Jaime’s tongue darted out, seeking desperate entrance, she let her lips part with a breathless sigh.

            What was it coursing through her veins? Hate? Lust? Some toxic combination of the two pumped madness to her lips and lungs, curling her fingers into his shirt, breathing gasp against his mouth. In one sudden motion, Jaime turned her around and backed her into the bed. The backs of her knees hit the mattress’s edge, and she let him push her down onto the comforter. Sansa crawled back until she lay in the middle of the bed. Jaime hardly broke away from her mouth, and when he settled back on top of her, his hands drifted lower. His fingers found the hem of her shirt, and Sansa automatically sat up to let him pull it away.

            She let her head fall back against the pillow and gazed up at this man straddling her thighs, staring down at her with a hunger that sent her heart racing. His thumb brushed her nipple over the fabric over bra. Sansa bit her lip, held back a surprised gasp.

            “Do you want me to stop?” Jaime whispered.

            Sansa swallowed—she couldn’t tell if the electricity shooting through her was from fear or his touch or her anger. Probably all three. But she was sure she didn’t want him to stop, didn’t want his weight to leave her. “No.” She sat up, and Jaime slipped away to let her stand beside the bed. With her back to him, Sansa unhooked her bra. It fell away, and she blushed furiously. Her hands stilled at the button of her jeans, then after a deep breath, she discarded those too. When she glanced down at the black of her panties, she bit her lip. Fabric rustled behind her, and Jaime’s t-shirt fell down by her foot.

            “Let me help,” Jamie murmured. His hands found her hips, strong fingers curling into her skin. He slid his forefingers under the waistband of her underwear, then slowly pulled down. When it reached her feet, Sansa stepped obediently out. When he guided her by the hips to turn around, the urge to cover herself washed over, but when she found Jaime’s eyes staring at her with so much _tenderness_ , she simply stood and let him watch. Sansa let her gaze roam over his bare, muscled chest. Golden hair dusted his skin from breastbone to the top of his ribs, then a thinner line disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers.

            His emerald eyes studied her like she was a painting, and he the humble observer. “Sweetheart,” he breathed out. One hand slid up to her breast, and he cupped it gently.

            “I’ve never done this before,” Sansa said, feeling stupid for saying it. But she was afraid Jaime was expecting something, someone… _someone like Margaery._

            “I know,” he answered softly. His hand slid up to her cheek, then his legs parted, and she moved to stand between them. “Do you want to talk about it?”

            “Sex?”

            “Is that what you want ?”

            Her cheeks burned, but she gave a tiny nod. “Obviously I _know_ what to do, but I…I’m going to need you to lead.”

            A smirk pulled at his lips, because _of course_ it did. Even with her naked before him and him half-naked before her, Jaime had to smirk. “I would be honored,” he murmured. He tipped her face towards him, capturing her lips with a gentle kiss. When he pulled away, he rose to his feet and said softly, “Lay back on the bed, head on the pillows.”

            She complied with a smile playing on her lips, then watched from the relaxed position as Jaime pulled off his socks, then his boxers. Her face felt hotter than ever before when his cock sprang free, already hard and standing at attention. Jaime must have seen her staring, because he laughed as he climbed back onto the bed. Instead of moving on top of her, he settled down by her feet.

            “Not what you were expecting?’ he asked with an impish grin.

            She rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen naked boys before.”

            Jaime grabbed hold of her knee, bending it into an angle, and pressed a kiss into the skin. “I’m no boy, sweetheart,” he growled playfully. “Is that who you imagined being your first?” He pulled gently at her leg, and his lips found the soft skin of her inner thigh.

            Sansa’s head fell back on the pillows as a sharp breath escaped her. “A boy?” She used to imagine Joffrey as her first—her first everything. “I always pictured my husband, I guess. When I married in a few years.”

            Jaime’s mouth trailed higher to the middle of her thigh. She closed her eyes, not wanting to even catch a glimpse of him kissing her, touching her anywhere near the spot between her legs. “Do you mind that I’m not your husband?”

            “Not really,” she answered to his chuckle. “I suppose you’ll probably be better than whoever I ended up marrying.”

            “Better?” He sucked a bruising kiss into the soft flesh of her thigh right beside her core. Sansa gasped.

            “Y—yes,” she stammered, her fingers curling into the blanket. “Better at _sex_ ,” she said with a slight tartness to her voice. His questions were beginning to agitate her, just like it always did when he purposefully worked to get a rise out of her for the fun of it. It helped a little though, taking the attention away from what his mouth was doing. Whenever she thought too much about _that_ , embarrassment flooded in at what she was doing—what she _wanted_ to be doing with Jaime right now.

            He let go of that leg, and Sansa let it fall flat back to the bed. She didn’t have much of a respite, though, before Jaime took hold of the other and bent it up. He kissed her shin, then her knee, then began working a fiery line up her thigh. When he sucked the skin innermost there too, Sansa moaned and squirmed away, pressing her back down flat against the bed.

            Jaime laughed, and she felt him lift way. “Open your eyes.”

            She blushed. “I can’t.”

            Jaime crawled towards her, then when she felt his breath wash over her face, his lips pressed into one eyelid, then the other. His cock slid against her stomach, a hot, heavy weight she was _definitely_ not thinking about. “You _can_ ,” he whispered. He kissed her mouth. “I want you to watch me make you come.”

            Her eyes flew open. “Make me…”

            “Yes,” he murmured, kissing her again, more insistently this time. His tongue swept into her mouth, dancing with her own. She sucked instinctively at his bottom lip, and Jaime groaned. “I’m going to kiss you, down there between your legs,” he said, his hand ghosting down her side, “until you climax.” He scooted away, and his lips swept over her throat, her collar bone, the top of one breast and the other. “Have you ever touched yourself before?”

            Her brain whirled to keep up as his lips closed around a nipple and sent a spark racing out from her core. “No,” she gasped.

            “Why not?”

            She frowned, just slightly, as Jaime shifted over to the other nipple. “I—I guess no one ever told me I could. ” Jaime shifted even lower, and he pressed a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses down to her stomach. “Jaime, I don’t think this is what we’re supposed to be doing.”

            He chuckled against her stomach, then he kissed her right in the middle of the auburn curls between her legs. “I thought you wanted me to lead,” he murmured, lifting away to gaze at her.

            Sansa bit her lip, and she couldn’t help but glance down to his length rising up into the air just inches from her body. “I do.”

            A wicked grin spread across his face. “Then bend your knees, sit back, and watch. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

            She nodded.

            Jaime settled in front of her bent legs, and when his hands reached in to part them, she let herself fall open to his eyes. For a moment, she felt only his thumbs rubbing slow circle into the inside of her thighs, then with a creak of the mattress, and a tightening of his hands, his golden head lowered to kiss her folds. At first she felt only the usual thrill of him kissing her, but when his tongue flicked up a little higher, she felt herself shudder with pleasure. A whimper escaped her lips. “God, Jaime,” she gasped.

            He did it again, and her body flinched, her hand coming up to wind into his hair. “God, am I?”

            “Shut up. You—you know what I mean,” she managed to get out before he sucked gently. Sansa’s hips jerked, and Jaime quickly grasped her hips to keep her still.

            “Are you still watching?” he said with another kiss that sent her quivering.

            “Yes.”

            She felt him smile against her. “Good.”

            Jaime’s pace quickened, and a pressure begin to build inside her. Where, Sansa had no idea, but it felt terribly, sinfully _good_. The pressure built and Sansa’s fingers curled tighter into his hair and his hands grasped harder to her hips until one last flick of his tongue ended it all. Like the sea against a cracked dam, a flood of pleasure spilled out, crashing through her body from head to toe. It lasted only for an instant, but those few seconds were more wonderful, more surprising than anything she’d ever felt before. She watched, breathless, as Jaime sat back up. His lips glistened, and Sansa blushed with the realization that it was her wetness on his mouth.

            “How do you feel?” Jaime asked, his gaze wandering her up and down.

            She licked her lips. “Good.”

            An amazed smile cracked open his mouth. “Good?”

            She raised one brow. “Would you like me to use a different word?”

            Jaime moved back over her, and when he kissed her gently, Sansa tasted what could only be herself on his lips. “No,” he told her, before lifting away and propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s perfect. _You’re_ perfect.” One hand reached out, brushing aside the hair clinging to her sweaty face. “We can stop now, if you like.”

            “If we kept going, would you feel as good as I just felt?”

            His gaze flickered over her face, and a darker, more desirous look took over his expression. “Yes.”

            Sansa reached between them, her fingers curling over his cock. Jaime hissed in surprise or pleasure, she wasn’t sure. “Then don’t stop.”

            Jaime grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away, pinning it back down against the bed. “Baby, I’m not gonna last long if you do that,” he said, laughing breathlessly.

            Sansa blushed—somehow that word always caught her more off guard than his usual _sweetheart._ She didn’t fight back against his hold. He nudged her thighs open with his other hand, and Sansa let them part with a steadying breath. She hardly knew a thing about sex, but Margaery had told her about this part. She said it might hurt the first time, and that she might bleed a little, but if the man was gentle it wouldn’t be so bad. At least, that’s what Margaery had heard from the other girls at school.

            _Will Jaime be gentle?_ she wondered as he took himself in hand and positioned himself between her spread thighs. His kisses had been gentle, but she feared his cock wouldn’t be quite the same as his mouth. And she knew Jaime was more than capable of using his strength when it suited him.

            “Sansa?”

            She glanced away from his cock and found his eyes wide, almost nervous on hers. “Yes?”

            “If you want me to stop, just tell me.”

            “Ok.”

            He smiled. “Ok.”

            With a hand braced on her shoulder, Jaime began to press himself into her. Sansa felt his cock glide easily against her slippery folds, but as he pushed deeper a dull pain began to spread. Sansa took a breath. “It’s ok. Keep going,” she murmured. Her hand ran up his arm to cup his cheek, and as her fingers curled around his rough jaw, she drew him closer, and Jaime slid fully inside with a low moan.

            Tears pricked her eyes, but when Jaime kissed her, he dragged her attention away from the pain. “The worst part’s over,” he said against her mouth. “Do you want me to—”

            “Don’t stop.” She deepened the kiss and snaked her arm around his back, pressing him flush against her. “Jaime, don’t stop.”

            Slowly, Jaime began to thrust. With each movement the pain eased away, and with each movement he stretched her further, deeper. Sansa wondered if the feeling his mouth gave her would happen again, as it was clearly happening to _him_ based on the way he was groaning. When he gave her a harder thrust, Sansa felt the hint of the pressure from before, but it was almost as if the angle wasn’t right, or his thrust not deep enough. She clung to Jaime anyway—it still felt delightfully good with his sweaty skin sliding against hers, his cock stretching her in a way she’d never known before. But what she liked to most was the way he kissed her with each thrust—her mouth, her breasts, her throat—like she was the most precious thing in the world.

            “Sansa, sweetheart,” Jaime said through a ragged breath. He braced himself on his hands, then his body crashed back into hers with a slick _slap_ of skin on skin. “Baby, you’re beautiful,” he gasped.  

            Jaime’s pace quickened until his thrusts turned more erratic, more forceful. She felt herself slide backwards with each push, and she wrapped her arm more tightly around his back as her legs curled around his hips. Jaime smashed his mouth against hers, groaning and thrusting faster and faster. “Sansa, let go.”

            “What?”

            “We don’t got a condom, and I’m gonna—”

            She had barely uncurled herself when Jaime suddenly pulled out from her with a slick sound. His head fell back as his hand pumped himself; white ropes of come spilled against her belly. Jaime kept whispering her name. _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…_ With his throat open and exposed, his chest shining with sweat, and his lips curved around her name, Sansa thought he’d never looked more beautiful. _Like a god,_ she mused, eyeing her white-covered belly with fascination. _And I did that to him._

            When Jaime’s cock dropped limply back down, his eyes finally opened, and he gazed down with her with a worried expression. “Damnit, I…” He reached for the comforter and began dabbing at the sticky substance now spreading across her stomach.

            “Hey,” Sansa said, sitting up and cupping his jaw into her palm. “It’s ok,” she murmured, searching his face. “I don’t mind.”

            He finished wiping it away then looked back to her with a gentle, tight smile. “I’ll get condoms for next time.”

            She arched a teasing eyebrow. “Next time, huh?”

            He didn’t laugh like she expected him to, instead reaching up to cover her hand with his own. “How do you feel?” he asked softly.

            She bit her lip, then glanced down at the wrinkled bedspread. A small circle of blood stained the yellow blanket, less than she had expected after what Margaery told her could happen. And she felt… “I feel ok,” Sansa told him. “Maybe a little sore, but it’s not too bad.” She suddenly took her hand back, then swung her legs off the bed. “I’m going to clean up,” she said. Now standing, she could see him fully, and she blushed. _He really is beautiful._ “Don’t go anywhere,” she warned. It earned her a smirk, and Sansa found herself smiling as she stepped over to the bathroom.

            After washing between her legs and stomach and smoothing back her messy hair, Sansa turned back around. She paused in the doorway. The comforter had been thrown off, and he’d untucked the pale sheets and slipped beneath them. Sansa’s eyes finally roamed back over to Jaime’s face, but his eyes weren’t on hers. Instead they drifted over her naked body with an intensity that sent her core tingling all over again.

            “Come here,” Jaime called out, half teasing, half low with commanding sincerity.

            Sansa stretched her hand up to hold onto the doorframe. “Make me.” She bit her lip, wondering if he’d find her childish with her teasing.

            Jaime took one last drink of her body before he shoved back the sheets and began stalking towards her. His head ducked down, and as he began pressing a bruising, sucking kiss into her throat that made Sansa giggle, he swept an arm behind her knees and scooped her into his arms. Sansa yelped in surprise as he first carried her over to the light switch, plummeting them into darkness, then carried her back over to the bed. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna tire me out,” he muttered, before placing her gently on the mattress. He crawled over to lay beside her, and Sansa let her head fall back against his chest. Jaime’s fingers trailed down her arm. Her skin pressed into his, his chest against her back, his legs wrapped around hers. Sweat dried and the fan whirled overhead. Her breathing steadied with his until the lull of sleep began to pull at her heavy lids.

            “Jaime?” she whispered, just in case he was still awake. His fingers stilled. She took a sharp breath, then said into the darkness, “I need to tell you what happened at the Mockingbird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. Woo, I'm so happy to finally post this. I really struggle with writing smut, but hopefully this worked? I really wanted to make sure that Sansa's naivety to sex comes across--as a girl growing up in a conservative town in the 70s, she doesn't know much, and she doesn't know what to ask for. Maybe it's not the crazy-hot first time some authors (beautifully) write, but I wanted to do the story justice. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. A Damn Good Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for extra creepy Baelish in this chapter.

            

            “Ok,” Jaime said softly. He knew it was coming, but when Sansa had kissed him…it had blown everything else far, far away. Now he waited for Sansa to speak again, but it was not until he shifted to gaze over at her that her lips finally parted. In the glow of the moonlight shafting through the curtains and the sheen of sex, Sansa was luminous. His gaze wandered over the arch of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hip. He studied her even when she averted her eyes and stared at her fingers digging into the sheets.

            “Mr. Baelish agreed to help save my family, but…but only if I left you behind.”

            Jaime pressed his lips together—he couldn’t say it was a surprise, not after they learned who Baelish really was. _But did she agree to those terms? And what if she did?_ A lick of doubt raced through him. Perhaps she only kissed him to say goodbye. Perhaps she gave in to this _thing_ between them just to see if he was worth it.

            If their positions had been reversed, Jaime knew what his answer would be—he would give in to her completely. But it wasn’t up to him, not now, not ever. Sansa Stark didn’t ask for some thirty-something year-old convict to show up outside her honeysuckle-sweetened home. And she certainty didn’t ask to be betrayed and kidnaped, kissed and made love to. Sansa Stark didn’t deserve any of it, and yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away and never look back. Not without her telling him to first.

            Jaime rolled over onto his back. “Is this goodbye?” he whispered to the ceiling fan.

            Her breathing quickened. Her nails dragged against the cotton sheet. “I…God, Jaime, I don’t want it to be.”

            “Then stay.” He sat up and put a hand to her cheek. Sansa blinked into his touch, then her eyes drifted open as his hand trailed down her neck, her ribs, over the curve over her hip before finally settling in the crook of her bent knee. He gripped the soft, pale skin and willed that he never had to let go. “We can keep going, keep running. Your family will be safe—”

            “For how long?” A tear spilled down her cheek. “I don’t know how long this can last. How long until you run out of cash? Until someone finds us?”

            She was right, even if it pained him to think it. He’d brought a good amount of cash to the ball, but they were already down to their last couple hundred. “We’ll find jobs,” he murmured, his thumb dragging a gentle circle into her skin. “Alayne and Kevin, right? We can figure this out, sweetheart.” He reached for her, swiping his fingers across her wet cheek.

            “I want to believe that, Jaime. I _do_.” She took a deep, wracked breath. “But we don’t need to decide until tomorrow night. That’s when Mr. Baelish wants to meet me. Do you…do you think I can have some time do think about it?”

            “Of course,” he said quietly. The words stung as they left his lips, but he pressed a sweet kiss against her mouth anyway. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

            _We._ As he settled back into the mattress and drew Sansa into his arms, the word reverberated through his mind, through the cramped motel room, through this whole damn state they had found themselves trapped in. _We._ There was no _we_. Just Sansa and who she thought could protect her. Who she thought she could trust.

            After tonight, Jaime wasn’t sure if he was that man.

 

 

**Wednesday July 20, 1977**

            During some ungodly hour between the blue of midnight and the pink of dawn, knuckles rapped against the motel room door. Jaime stirred and smiled through his sleep when he found Sansa still dozing in his arms, but when the knock sounded again, his eyes flew open and he rolled towards the sound.

            “What’s wrong?” Sansa mumbled. She moved to sit up, but Jaime gently pushed her back towards the bed.

            “Stay here,” he whispered as Sansa drew the sheets up over her bare chest. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, quickly pulled on his discarded boxers and jeans, then padded over to the door. Crouching slightly to look through the peephole, Jaime blinked at the strange sight through the warped circle of glass. A girl stood there, a hood drawn over her head, but still Jaime could make out the silver curls peeking out from where she had tucked them messily away. She was short, shorter than Sansa, but looked about the same age. _No…it can’t be…_ “Sansa…” Jaime said, turning to frown at her. “You mentioned that you heard Daenerys Targaryen was sold to Baelish.”

            Sansa’s cheeks drain of color. “Yes,” she whispered back.

            With a grim face, Jaime turned back towards the door, gripped the handle, and pulled. The girl before him stepped back in surprise. “I—I’m sorry, I thought that—”

            Footsteps followed the rustling of clothes being pulled hastily on. From the corner of his eye, Jaime watched Sansa move up to his side, now dressed in her wrinkled clothes from the day.

            With a sharp intake of air, the Targaryen girl’s eyes widened.

 

* * *

 

            “Dany? Is that really you?” Sansa asked, breathless.

            Dany glanced nervously down the hallway, then her fingers crept up to grip the dark fabric of her hood. When she pulled, a cascade of silver hair fell from her shoulders. “Hello, Sansa. Can I come in?”

            Jaime pulled the door open wider. Dany stood hugging herself by the corner of the bed while he locked the door. Sansa found herself gazing at the girl in wonder—so she really had seen Dany back at Mr. Baelish’s brothel. _After all this time…_ a sick feeling settled in her belly. Sansa had known the Targaryen girl had gone missing since June, but she had done nothing. At the time she hadn’t known who Littlefinger really was, but still…Sansa shook her head and took a tentative step towards her. “Dany, I don’t know what to say,” she said, before biting her lip. Jaime looked awkwardly between them and rubbed a hand over his jaw darkened with stubble. “How on earth did you get out?”

            “A backdoor,” Dany said with a shrug. “There’s one behind a curtain in Littlefinger’s office.”

            Sansa nodded absently. “Are you ok? Are you really…”

            “A whore?” Sansa flinched at the word, but Dany’s face remained smooth. “Yes, I am,” Dany answered softly. Her voice hung on the thin edge between uncanny calmness and resentment. It sent Sansa into a tingling wave of shivers. “But I’ve had worse,” Dany continued bitterly. “Hard to imagine, I know. But that’s not why I’m here, Sansa.” She looked sideways to Jaime.

            “He’s ok,” Sansa assured her, noticing the twitch in Jaime’s pressed lips. “He’s protecting me.”

            “And whatever you have to say to Sansa, you can say to me,” Jaime added in a low voice.

            Dany’s brows raised. “Seriously? You know what this man has done, right? What his family wants to do to yours?”

            “I trust him,” Sansa responded, a little more curtly than she intended. She watched the lilac of Dany’s eyes flare before settling.

            “Fine, but if he runs back to his family with his tail between his legs, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Dany said. She gave Jaime a cold, lingering look, then perched gingerly on the edge of the bed. Sansa moved to the little stool by the window, and Jaime leaned against the dresser with his arms crossed in front of his bare chest. Dany took a deep breath, then let out lengthy sigh. “I came here tonight because I overheard Littlefinger on the phone after you went to him,” she began slowly. “Because you need to know that he’s about to betray you.”

            Dany’s story spilled from her lips as Sansa and Jaime stood in a growing state of silent dread. She began by tracing back to her first encounter with Littlefinger, just days after Sansa had overheard her shouted conversation in Flea Bottom. After a poor bout of gambling, Viserys owed the man more money than he had, and he sold Dany in exchange for a slate wiped clean. Dany had been whisked silently and quickly out of school—she was already eighteen, after all, and no one cares about a missing girl from the wrong side of town as long as she’s not a kid anymore. After a long, stifling car ride to Fingers, Georgia, Dany met Mr. Baelish for the first time, but no one called him anything but _Littlefinger_ around here. Dany realized her situation quickly enough after the first man paid for a night in her company. She and the rest of Littlefinger’s girls were forced to perform under all manner of threats—no food, no water, a family killed in a tragic car accident. Men paid extra for the disgraced Targaryen girl with the strange silver hair, but through these high-paying clients, she had been given access to Littlefinger that most others didn’t have. She learned of his ties to Tywin Lannister quickly enough, but as the debutante ball approached, his late-night phone calls and hushed conversations with wealthy men began to include a name she knew: _Sansa Stark_.

            “When you return to him tomorrow night,” Dany said in a grave, quiet voice. “He will not take you home or protect your family, Sansa. He’s going to send some men here to deal with Jaime, I guess, and keep you locked up in the Mockingbird. With both of you out of the way…all he has to do is wait for the Lannisters to kill the rest of your family. After that, Tywin will come for you both.”

            Sansa sucked in a sharp breath of air, but Jaime only scoffed. “And how exactly do you know this?” he demanded, his eyes glinting a hard green.

            Dany shifted, rounding on him. She was a small girl, shorter than Sansa by far, but even sitting, she looked a scary sight. The violet of her eyes danced, hiding what Sansa could only imagine a deep pain underneath. “Because I heard it from Littlefinger’s own lips,” she said coolly. “I suppose there are some privileges from being kept as his personal pet.”

            Sansa’s stomach roiled—the idea of Mr. Baelish forcing Dany to work as a…as a _prostitute_ was bad enough, but to force her into his own silk sheets? A wave of nausea rippled from her throat to her belly as she realized how utterly wrong she’d been about Mr. Baelish. Sansa knew there was something off about the man the moment she met him at Harrenhal, but the truth was far worse than she expected. And far more deadly. Sansa stepped away from the window to sit down beside Dany. The bedsprings groaned as she met Jaime’s eyes. “We believe you, Dany,” she said quietly. The girl looked between them, then after a lingering pause, Jaime nodded his agreement. “And I am so, so sorry this happened to you. If there’s any way we can bring you with us…”

            Dany fiddled with the strings of her hoodie. “I know you want to help, Sansa, but it’ll look too suspicious if I leave at the same time you two do. And besides, I’ve been working on my own plan.”

            “What plan?” Jaime asked. His arms weren’t crossed anymore, and his jaw had softened sympathetically.

            “A man I met while working,” Dany answered. “His name is Jorah Mormont—some logging businessman from up north. Apparently he knew my family,” she said with a flickering, hopeful smile. “He’ll be back in Georgia in a week and says he’ll take me back with him.”

            “And you trust him?” Sansa asked, her brows pulling together.

            Before Dany could answer, Jaime spoke up. “You can,” he said, as their eyes drifted back over to him.

            “You know Mormont?” Dany asked, frowning.

            “I know of him—man used to be the principal at the high school back home when I was a kid, back before he inherited his family’s business. He was a good man, at least back then. Now, I don’t know how he ended up visiting Littlefinger’s damn whorehouse, but if he’s the same Mormont, he’ll take care of you.”

            Sansa bit her lip. “I don’t like it.”

            Dany tucked a silver lock behind her ear. “You don’t have to,” she said softly. “I can take care of myself, and I’ll only slow ya’ll down if I go with you.” She stood, straightening her sweatshirt and pulling her hood back over her hair. A shadow fell over eyes, turning them a stormy shade of indigo. “I gotta go before anyone at the Bird notices I’m gone,” she said, glancing from Jaime to Sansa.

            Jaime nodded and moved over to the door, pulling it open for her. Sansa drifted behind. “It took a lot of guts comin’ over here,” he told Dany as she paused in the threshold. “Thank you.”

            Dany’s eyes flicked Jaime up and down. “I didn’t do it for you,” she said curtly, before glancing over to Sansa. Her expression softened into a smile. “Be careful with him,” she said, before disappearing down the hallway.

            Sansa sat back on the bed and stared blankly at the wall. _Be careful._ With a sigh, she let herself fall backwards onto the mattress. The fan whirled above her—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—as the bed dipped under Jaime’s weight.

            _Be careful about Littlefinger, or Jaime?_

Fingers found her cheek, and the warm weight drew her eyes over to Jaime. Here they were again, laying side by side in bed, but now Dany’s warning had cooled away the heat from the sex that seemed so long ago now. Sansa leaned into his touch, pushing away the doubt Dany had seeded in her mind. The girl didn’t know Jaime like she did. Baelish was her enemy now, and it was him she had to focus on.

            “Are you ok?” Jaime whispered, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone.

            “I’m ok.”

            “We can leave now,” he said softly. “Get in that truck and drive.”

            Sansa rolled over onto her side, nestling up against Jaime’s chest. The heat from his skin washed over her, pleasantly safe, comfortingly warm. His arm curled over her waist, drawing her closer. “Baelish knows about you,” Sansa whispered back. Tears pricked her eyes. “And he’s not a few states away and out of reach—he’s right _here_ , Jaime. I don’t think we can run this time.”

            “But if we don’t?”

            Sansa sighed and pressed her cheek into his chest. Like this, he didn’t have to see the frightened tears leaking from her eyes. If he felt them, Jaime made no comment. “Maybe,” she said, before taking a trembling breath. “Maybe we fight.”

            The rest of the night and day they spent in bed; sleeping till noon, talking quietly until dusk, dragging themselves down to the little grocer on the corner when their stomachs began to rumble. In bed, Sansa whispered stories of her childhood into Jaime’s hair as it rested heavily in her lap, and Jaime slowly revealed the trials of a decade in prison, his eyes flitting nervously towards her face and away in boyish abashment. When she threaded her fingers through his hair and dipped low, she kissed him for the first time since last night. It was a soft kiss, one of gentle comfort and trembling touches. Kissing Jaime still felt so strange, and when he climbed up to press her back into the pillows, Sansa breathed out a cautious plea to pause. Her body wanted nothing more than to feel that strange building of pressure again, to feel his hands and mouth on every inch of her skin, but in the daylight, and without the fire of their fight, her brain felt too foggy to make sense of the sex. It scared her and thrilled her, just like everything Jaime did with her— _to_ her.

            With a sugar-sweet kiss, Jaime eased way and wrapped her reassuringly in her arms. Sansa sank gladly into his heat and waited for the sun to set beyond the flat Georgia skyline. Maybe they fell asleep again, maybe they simply listened to each other’s hearts and breaths and slipped beneath the other’s scent. They did not rouse till nightfall, when it was time to set out for the Mockingbird. Sansa donned her prettiest, floral dress, and Jaime his supple jeans and crisp button down. Tonight, this would be their armor. Tonight, they would fight.

 

            The guard outside the Mockingbird let her in without a word, and as Sansa stepped inside the brothel pounding with bass, flooding with light, she touched the fine powder inside her dress pocket, just to make sure the dust was still there. Jaime had picked up the pills at the corner store—sleeping pills, he told her, the kind his sister used to take. Back in the motel, Sansa had spilled a few of the little white pills into her palm and asked what they’d do.

            _“That’s enough to knock a man out for a night,” Jaime told her before gently grasping her hand and tipping the pills into his own._

_“You’re sure this is enough?”_

_“Trust me,” Jaime said with a grim frown. He placed the pills on the dresser and began to grind them with the heel of his hand. “Just a pinch and he’ll be out long enough for us to disappear long before the bastard wakes up.”_

            The plan was simple enough—so simple it scared her. While Jaime waited around the corner in the truck, Sansa would slip the drugs into the whiskey she was sure would be right by Mr. Baelish’s side. After he fell asleep, they’d have plenty of time to flee out the backdoor Dany had mentioned. At least, that’s what Sansa told herself as she stepped deeper into the brothel.

            Sansa withdrew her hand as a pretty girl in a slinky, sequined dress approached. Her painted lips moved, but with the pounding of the music, Sansa had to lean in closer hear.

            “Follow me,” the girl repeated, her breath warm and sweet against Sansa’s cheek. She turned on her shiny black heel and led Sansa towards the beaded curtain leading to Mr. Baelish’s office.

            The girl melted away into the shadows below as soon as the door shut behind Sansa. Mr. Baelish sat at his desk, his legs crossed, a half glass of whiskey in his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it,” he called out. Up here, the heartbeat of the bass still drummed, but it was dimmer, more threatening than utterly overwhelming like it was below.

            Sansa took one of the leather armchairs across from him. A smirk spread over his face as he looked her up and down. His cold eyes paused at her thighs where the dress rode up. “I made a promise,” Sansa said. She smoothed out her dress to keep her hands from wringing. “I’m here, and I made Jaime leave. So tell me, Mr. Baelish…how are you going to keep my family safe?”

            Mr. Baelish took a hard swallow then set his glass down with a _clink_. He watched her for a moment longer before his eyes finally met hers. “Do you remember what that little promise was, Sansa?”

            Wrinkles flattened beneath her damp palms. “That I’d get rid of Jaime, then you’d help me.”

            His head cocked. “That’s all you remember?” When she gave no reply, he _tsked_ , then pushed up from his seat. Mr. Baelish picked up his drink and strode towards her. When he stood just before her, in the foot of space between the lip of his desk and her knees, he perched on the edge and gazed down at her with piercing grey-green eyes. “You said you’d do anything to keep them safe,” he said quietly, setting his glass back down. He reached out, taking hold of her chin with a pinching grip. “Do you know what that means, sweetheart?”

            Sansa glanced at the whiskey. She was so _close_ now. Her heart thudded. Her palms soaked sweat into her skirt. It would just take a pinch, Jaime had told her. But without a sure shot at the glass, she didn’t dare risk an attempt just yet. Sansa let out a shaky breath and forced herself to meet Mr. Baelish’s eyes. “What do you want?” she whispered back.

            His fingers fanned out, curling into her cheek. His other hand found the back of her neck, and he firmly guided her to her feet. Even with an inch over the man, Sansa felt small before him, trapped like a creature in a snare. Mr. Baelish gave her no response, but his touches were answer enough. With the hand on her neck, he drew her closer until his lips ghosted over her own. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed out. “You can’t possibly know how long.” His lips met hers, wet and thin, too harsh to be pleasant. Sansa jerked back from his grip, but when a hand found her waist, Sansa fought another urge to break free. Her eyes opened as he deepened the kiss, falling over his shoulder to the glass right before her now. As his fingers dug painfully into her left hip, and his tongue forced entry into her mouth, Sansa slipped her hand into her right pocket and found the dry powder.

            _Just a pinch_. Jaime’s words echoed in her mind. Her hand began to shake, his fingers dipped lower, and with a sharp intake of breath, Sansa sprinkled the pinch into the whiskey.

            Mr. Baelish must have taken her gasp as a sign of pleasure, for his hands slid up to capture her jaw and throat. Sansa barely had a chance to watch the powder dissolve in the crisp brown liquid before his voice drew her back.

            “You’re even more beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her flushed skin.

            Sansa’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you,” she muttered back, hating how stupid she sounded. But she supposed her response had pleased him, for he finally let go with a chuckle. “Will you tell me how we’re going to stop the Lannisters now, Mr. Baelish?” she asked quietly.

            His brows raised, then he reached over to pick up the glass of whiskey. Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat as he idly swirled the liquid round and round the crystal cup. “You think a little kiss is all I’m owed?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

            Sansa bit her lip. _If only he’d drink the damn thing_. She forced herself to take a deep breath, but it did little to calm her nerves. “I—I thought that was what you wanted,” she stuttered lamely.

            He laughed at that, a low, mocking laugh with sharp edges that sent her cheeks scarlet. “Sweetheart, it’s no easy task to defeat a family like the Lannisters. And even for a girl as sweet and pretty as my Cat’s daughter, I can’t go about taking such a risk for a simple, little kiss, now can I?” He chuckled at his own words, then in one fluid motion, Mr. Baelish tipped back his head and let the whiskey pour down his throat. As his lips closed again, a frown twitched at his cheeks. He began to lift the glass up for a closer look.

            Sansa’s eyes widened. “Then what else do you want?” she asked quickly. His eyes snapped back towards her.

            The glass found the table once more. Mr. Baelish drank her in, slowly, like he was peeling the dress right from her skin. With his eyes still trained on her body, he suddenly kicked out, pushing back her chair with his foot. Sansa let out a surprised gasp as the chair slid away. “On your knees, sweetheart,” he said calmly.

            “Excuse me?”

            “You’re a clever girl, Sansa. You know what’s at stake here.”

            Trembling and flushed, Sansa sank down to floor. Her knees ached when they hit the hardwood, and she could not bring herself look up at him like this.

            _You just have to wait another minute,_ Sansa told herself as he pulled the armchairs off to the side. Or was it five minutes? Sansa’s mind raced as she tried to remember how long Jaime said the pills would take, but her thoughts were promptly cut off at his sly voice. “Bring him in,” Mr. Baelish called out.

            Sansa whirled around as the office door opened. The guard from outside stepped in, but Sansa’s eyes fell only on the man in his crushing grip. Jaime stood there, seething, his chest rapidly rising and falling in rage. The barrel of a black gun dug into Jaime’s ribs.

            “Jaime!” His name flew from her lips. Sansa began to get up when Mr. Baelish’s hard hand on her shoulder forced her painfully back down.

            “Thank you, Roy,” Mr. Baelish said. “You can leave, but stay close.” The guard nodded, then shoved Jaime into the room. Mr. Baelish’s fingers pressed deeper into her shoulders. “Step inside, Jaime,” he said, his voice like oil. “Take a seat.” Jaime’s eyes flared at Mr. Baelish’s words, but his eyes were only on her.

            _Please,_ Sansa pleaded silently, praying Jaime would catch the meaning in her gaze. _Please just wait for him to fall asleep before you do anything stupid._

            Perhaps Jaime understood her, or perhaps he was operating under some plan of his own. But for whatever reason, Jaime strode over to the armchairs Mr. Baelish had dragged to the side.

            “ _Sit_.” Mr. Baelish hissed. His eyes flashed. His grip tightened.

            “Let her go,” Jaime said through his gritted teeth. “Let the girl go, and I will not tell my father how you’ve spoiled her for his plans.”

            Mr. Baelish chuckled. “You really are a fucking idiot, aren’t you?” he asked. His hand slid over to the back of Sansa’s neck, then he shoved her towards him. Sansa whimpered, but neither of the men glanced her way. “Coming to my town, thinking you know how to play this game? _My_ game?” He slowly undid his belt buckle; Sansa watched Jaime’s livid gaze drop down, and when he caught her eye for just a second, she shot him that same silent plea. “You Lannisters pretend at being great men, but at the end of the day that’s all you are…men. Violent and lustful…you can’t even follow through on a simple plan without fucking it up with your own selfish wants.”

            “And you’re not?” Jaime asked coolly. He tried to smirk, but his lips faltered quickly, and Mr. Baelish knew it too when a chuckle rumbled from his chest.

            “This?” he asked, looking down at Sansa. He thrust her forward again. Another whimper escaped her, this one closer to a sob than a nervous breath. “This has been my plan for a very long time,” he told Jaime with a sneer. “And you, Jaime Lannister, are going to watch me claim my reward.” His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her upward.

            “No, please!” Sansa pleaded. Mr. Baelish ignored her, dragging her towards the desk. She heard Jaime leap to his feet, felt the hard press of wood smash into her face with a sickening _crunch_ , then, as easily as a dive into a pool, the hand on her hair slid gently away.

            _Thud_. A body dropped behind her.    

            _Boom. Boom. Boom-boom._ The bass drifted up from the festivities below.

            Something trickled down her lips. She pushed herself up, touched her throbbing nose, drew her hand back to see it bright red. Licked her lips and tasted cooper. Sansa wiped the blood away with the back of her hand, then turned. She had expected to see Mr. Baelish’s body sprawled out on the floor, but not the silver gun pointed at his chest.

            “Jaime,” Sansa breathed out. He didn’t move, didn’t turn the gun away, didn’t look up. “Jaime!” she tried again, rushing forward to grip his arm. She glanced towards the office door, but the music must be too loud, and no footsteps pounded towards them, no guns emerged to point their way. “Jaime, we have to go.” His hand trembled violently. Finally, when her hand slid up to his cheek, Jaime tore his blazing eyes away from the sleeping man.

            “He was going to hurt you,” Jaime croaked.  

            Sansa shook her head, tried to pull him back to her. “We just had to wait for him to fall asleep,” she whispered hoarsely. Frightened tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked the stinging things away. “He’s asleep now, Jaime. Let’s _go_.”

            Jaime turned back to Mr. Baelish. “I can’t.”

            “You can.” Her fingers slid down his extended arm before wrapping around his fingers curled over the handle of the gun. “Killing him won’t solve anything,” she said desperately. “It’ll just make things worse—make them more dangerous.  Do you want that for me, Jaime? Do you want to put me in more danger? Because if you pull that damn trigger, you won’t be able to protect me anymore. I’m sure of that.” She felt like she was babbling—in truth, Sansa had no idea what might happen if Jaime let that bullet fly. All she knew was what it would do to him, how the violence of the act would twist his head until he told himself he didn’t deserve anything again. Sansa hadn’t been around for what happened with the Targaryens, but she sure as hell was here now to stop him from taking life once again. Even if that life belonged to man as horrible as Mr. Baelish.

            Jaime’s gaze snapped towards her. “No,” he whispered, his voice breathless and pained, his eyes dancing as if a sudden realization had hit him. “I would never…”

            “Then let’s go,” Sansa told him gently. She pried the gun from his hand and replaced it with her own. Her fingers intertwined with his. “Is the truck still outside?” He nodded, just barely. “Let’s go now, Jaime,” she said softly, tugging him forward. “Let’s go away.”

 

            With Jaime's hand still locked solidly in hers, Sansa rummaged through Mr. Baelish's desk. She found only a small stack of bills, maybe a hundred or so, but as the rest of the desk drawers were locked and there was surely a man outside about to burst in at any moment, she stuffed the money in her pocket. It would have to do. Sansa led Jaime carefully over Littlefinger’s unconscious body and through the heavy curtains to the door Dany said would be there. Jaime followed her without another word down the twisting staircase, out the backdoor into the blanket of night. When they reached the truck again, they climbed inside like nothing had happened, and when the engine roared and filled the silent street with life, Sansa finally let out a long, exhausted sigh.

            A hand found hers. Sansa turned from the window to watch Jaime press a gentle kiss against the back of her hand. Blood from her nose still stained the pale skin, but he paid it no mind. “Thank you,” Jaime whispered.

            Sansa swallowed as his lips fell away. He kept hold over her hand though, keeping it on his thigh. “You don’t have to thank me. The pills were your plan, I just…”

            “I don’t mean for the pills, Sansa,” Jaime murmured. “I…goddamnit, sweetheart, I would have killed that son of a bitch.”

            “But you didn’t,” she reminded him.

            “He’s going to come after us.”

            “So will your father. So will the cops. So would whatever awful men Littlefinger hires to keep him safe if you had shot him. Jaime, we’re in this together now. I…I don’t think we can ever—could ever—stop any of it.” She breathed out an unsettled sighed and turned to the front window. Sansa gazed up at the empty, star-scattered sky. “I think there’s only one way out of this,” she whispered to Jaime, to the night, to herself. “And you were right. We have to run, and we can’t stop. Not ever.”

            Jaime squeezed her fingers. “If you’re down, baby, then so am I. Sounds like a damn good adventure to me.”

            She laughed; it spilled from her lips, girlish and foolish, filled with the sinking stone of dread in her belly. “A damn good adventure,” she agreed sadly.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone sticking with me through this update schedule change! I hope you like this chapter even with the long wait. Also, I'd like to know if you prefer more of a wait with longer chapters or less of a wait with shorter chapters, which might be more doable. Thanks!


	13. Alabama Night

            

            They drove west past sprawling cornfields, forests of stick-thin trees, plains of wispy grasses turned brittle beneath the sun. They drove west until a peeling sign welcomed them to Alabama and the sun had dropped low in the flat horizon.

            “Never been to Alabama,” Jaime mused. With his palm against the steering wheel, he guided the truck gently around a bend. Only more tall, pale corn greeted them.

            “I’ve never been much anywhere,” Sansa said beside him, her voice faint as the wind from the open window ripped through. “We hardly ever left Westeros, and when we did it was never further then a state away.”

            The scorched day was beginning to settle into the cool of night, and Sansa had pulled on one of his button-ups from the duffle bag. The white linen hung loose around her shoulders, just barely brushed by her short, dark locks. Jaime put his arm around her, sliding her closer towards him along the bench. She leaned against him, her cheek warm against the crook of his neck. “And if you could go anywhere?” he asked.

            Sansa sighed into his skin. “Somewhere different,” she whispered, her words nearly stolen in the wind.

            _Somewhere different._ The road ahead stretched long and straight and flat, lined with sun-bleached fence and fields that never ended. Jaime took his eyes off the road to press a kiss against her hair. He’d take her to a hundred different places if he had to. But for now, somewhere different meant away from Fingers, away from Westeros and the families they’d left behind. Jaime wasn’t quite sure where he was driving to yet; north, eventually, but for now the plains of Alabama lulled him deeper into the vacant state. No headlights had zipped past them for miles now, and the rearview mirror showed nothing but road and dust and lilac sky. They had escaped for now, but Jaime had a sinking feeling that the respite would not last long.

            They drove like that for a couple dozen more miles until Jaime’s leg began to cramp and Sansa’s eyes kept drifting shut. When he finally spotted a wooden sign for a campground with RV parking, Jaime spun the wheel to the right and plummeted them down the gravel road. The clearing at the end was lined with trees, and a choir of owls and crickets sang to the night. It was otherwise deserted. Jaime parked in the far corner as Sansa blearily rubbed her eyes and looked around.

            “At last, a five-star hotel,” Sansa teased with a yawn.

            Jaime chucked as he climbed out of the truck and walked around to the back seat to grab the duffle and the bundle he’d placed there earlier. Jaime tossed everything into the bed of the truck, then he moved around to Sansa’s door. “Oh, it will be,” Jaime said with a smirk. He held out a hand. A frown formed on Sansa’s face, but she took his hand anyway. Jaime pulled her down and led her over to the bed.

            A pile of pillows and blankets sat in the truck bed. As Sansa stood there, confusion written on her face, Jaime began spreading out the bedding.

            “Did you…did you steal these from the motel?”

            Jaime shook out the yellow comforter, letting it fall neatly over the metal bed. “Sure did, sweetheart.” Next, Jaime spread out the extra blankets that had been stuffed into the motel room closet. When their makeshift bed was finally ready, he turned back to Sansa to see a small smile on her lips. “I wanted it to be a surprise. What do you think?” he drawled, stalking towards her. His arms curled around her, drawing her into his chest.

            “It’s perfect,” Sansa answered. For a moment, she simply grinned up at him. Then her body rose up in his arms, and she pressed her lips against his. It was a quick kiss, but when she dropped back on her heels, a blush spread across her cheeks all the same.

            Jaime couldn’t help but smirk at her body’s endearingly innocent reaction. “You ever gonna stop blushing when I kiss you?”

            Pink turned to scarlet. “I think I was the one who kissed you.”

            Jaime grinned. His hand slid up to cup the back of her neck. With his fingers threaded through her hair, Jaime kissed her, pressed her closer. Back in Fingers, when their kiss had led to sex, Jaime hardly had time to process what any of it meant. He knew what his _body_ wanted, how it wanted nothing more than to throw her into that pile of blankets and kiss and thrust until she came, but his brain felt a little differently. Back in the motel, the sex had been fueled from the anger of their fight, but now under the shower of stars and the peace of the woods, his mind wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. Sansa was _eighteen_ , goddammit. And all alone, except for him.

            _Maybe she never wanted you at all_.

            A hand on his cheek drew Jaime back to Sansa. She gazed softly up at him, worry creasing her brow. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

            Jaime covered her hand, then slid his fingers through hers to drag the hand away. “I want you to know that I don’t expect anything from you, Sansa,” he told her quietly. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to…”

            “To what?”

            “To be anything more than friends. Or even just traveling companions.”

            Her eyebrows raised. “Traveling companions?” Sansa’s hands slipped up his chest to find his jaw, cradling him close. “I never wanted to be your _friend_ , Jaime Lannister.” Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth as her back arched, pressing her hips into him. The sudden contact had him stirring below. “I thought that was obvious enough,” she breathed out.

            This time Jaime took hold of both her hands, and he pried them gently from his jaw to clasp them instead. “Do you regret letting me take your virginity?”

            Sansa’s parted lips clamed shut. She pulled away, and he dropped her hands. “I didn’t _let you_ do anything,” she bit back, crossing her arms against her chest. “I wanted you, Jaime. And I don’t care if you think I’m too young, or you’re too old, or we could never be together because of who we are.”

            “That’s not it.”

            “Then what is it?”

            Jaime let out a lengthy sigh as he raked his fingers through his too-long hair. He turned away from her to face the truck. His eyes drifted over the enticing mound of blankets he’d set up for them to share together. “I’m not a good man, Sansa,” he began quietly. Sansa made a sound of protest, but he continued on before she could get a word out. “I’m not, and you know that. You’ve _felt_ that not even a week ago at the ball. Godammit, Sansa, I’m afraid that being with you will only end in one way. With you hurt, or worse.”

            The song of the countryside fell thickly into the silence stretched between them. Jaime didn’t know how long he stood there, his eyes wavering on the midnight sky above the trees, until soft footsteps moved past him until Sansa stood before him again. She crossed the distance in three stinging steps and crashed into him. Her mouth smashed against his, hot and wet and willing. “I don’t care,” she whispered into his lips, curling her arm around his neck to drag him closer. “I want you Jaime. I know that now.”

            Jaime groaned into her mouth as he plunged his tongue in against hers. In one swift movement, he grabbed the backs of her thighs and hoisted her up against him. Sansa’s legs hooked around his waist as he carried her to the truck, setting her down without their mouths ever breaking. “Baby, are you sure?” Jaime breathed out desperately as her kiss trailed over to his ear.

            “Please shut up,” she answered against his prickling skin. She took his earlobe between her lips, nipping gently.

            _Fuck it._ Jaime didn’t need to be told twice. His hands moved to the loose button-down around her shoulders. He pushed it hastily off and threw it aside, revealing the pretty dress beneath. As Sansa fumbled with his own buttons, Jaime hiked up her skirt, sliding it up to bunch at her waist. In the pale light shining down from the clear sky, her skin glowed, her white panties burned tempting and white. Jaime let her push his shirt aside, then he pressed down, lowering her to the soft bed of the truck. Bent over like this, Jaime could tell Sansa was unsettled by the way her breathing caught in her chest. He soothed her with sweet kisses; pressed into her swollen mouth, sliding along the hollow of her neck, cascading down her chest even when the fabric of her dress got in his way. When he reached the strip of skin above her panties, Jaime grasped the hem of her dress and pulled. Sansa’s arms lifted eagerly as he exposed her to the night.

            His bare chest slid against hers as he lowered himself back down. His mouth closed around one pert nipple, and a whimper flew from her lips. “Do that again,” Sansa breathed out.

            Jaime happily obeyed, but he didn’t stay at her perfect, pink-tinged breasts for too long. With his hands clasped solidly around her hips, Jaime sank to his knees. Her thighs parted readily as he descended on her core, and when he mouthed over the cotton of her panties, Sansa bucked up against his hold. His tongue flicked over the dampness of the fabric. With a smirk, Jaime reached over to grasp the underwear, sliding it down as she lifted her hips to help.

            Back down and buried between her soft thighs, Jaime began to kiss the sensitive spot below her crown of red, curly hair. Sansa moaned and jerked and dug her fingers into his back as Jaime kissed and sucked and licked. Then with one flick of his tongue, Sansa gasped out his name. Her hands slipped away as wetness seeped from her core.

            “You’re so beautiful,” Jaime whispered, before pressing a kiss into her thigh. He rose to his feet, unbuckling his belt and reaching for his zipper to free his hard cock when Sansa’s hand darted out to grasp his hand. “Wait,” she stammered.

            His eyes slid up as Sansa pushed herself back into a sitting position. Her feet dangled in the air on either side of his legs. “Should I stop?” he asked, his forehead creased with worry.

            Sansa took a moment to push back the hair from her glistening forehead, then her gaze locked onto his. She bit her lip. “I…”

             “What is it, Sansa?” he asked softly, brushing back the locks that had slipped free again.

            “I… _God_ , you’re going to think I sound like an idiot.”

            “Hey,” Jaime said gently. “I’m not going to think that just because you’ve never done this before.” He kissed her, just to ease the worry from her mouth. “I want this to go however you want it to go. Ask or say whatever you want.”

            Sansa nodded weakly. Her eyes fell on the ground, and her cheeks turned a shade of scarlet even the weak moonlight could not hide. “That thing you did again with your mouth…”

            “Did you enjoy that?”

            Her blush deepened. “Yes.”

            “We can stop now if you want.”

            Her eyes drifted back to his, wide and nervous, framed in a fan of dark lashes. “I want to do it to you,” she admitted in a whisper.

            Jaime’s brows shot up in surprise. “You do?”

            “I’ve been thinking about it since last night, and…” _You have?_ Jaime thought, his heart racing sinfully. “And Jaime, I want to make you feel as good as you made me. When I felt you inside me, that was wonderful too, but…but I’m still a little sore,” she said meekly. “At least tonight, I want to wait a little.”

            Doubt seeded his mind as Jaime frowned. “You don’t have to do that—or anything—to make me feel good,” he told her, cupping her cheek and kissing her again. “Allowing me to kiss you everywhere…” he said through a smile. “It’s all I need.”  

            When he pulled slightly back, he saw her eyes roll. “Don’t you get it? I want to, Jaime.” Her fingers found his zipper. She tugged down, then her eyes fell on the outline of his hard cock trapped beneath his boxers. Sansa reached out hesitantly, and as one finger just brushed along the bit of length exposed, a hiss escaped Jaime’s lips. “Just tell me what to do,” she told him.

            “I will,” Jaime said, grasping her hand and holding it still. “But you _tell me_ if you want to stop, ok? I won’t have you hurt just to please me.” Sansa nodded as he let her hand go.

            Jaime whispered to her in soft, breathless murmurs as he arranged them in a position that would be comfortable for them both. After Sansa slipped back on her button-up and panties, they ended up with Jaime leaning back against the edge of the truck bed while Sansa sank gracefully to her knees before him. He’d thrown a pillow down, and the plush fabric creased beneath her weight. As soon as she’d settled into her position, Sansa reached for his jeans, and with a stifled groan, Jaime watched her slip denim and boxers from his legs. His cock cut into the cool air, but Sansa only gazed at him curiously.

            “Open your mouth,” Jaime murmured. One of her hands steadied on his thigh while the other clasped the base of his cock. Jaime thought the touch alone was enough to send him over the edge, but when her lips parted and her tongue pressed into the leaking head of his cock, pleasure washed over him. Cersei never liked to take him like this, and besides, he hadn’t been with her or anyone else since before the Targaryen manor…except for that God-awful, quick time in her bed before the ball. As guilt budded inside his belly, Jaime dragged his attention back to the way Sansa’s pink lips wrapped perfectly around him, the way her eyes lifted to meet his with such longing Jaime thought she was a dream.

            “That’s…that’s good, baby,” Jaime muttered, squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of pleasure crashed over him. Sansa pulled away, just briefly, for air, and Jaime’s hand settled in her hair. “I can finish on my own—”

            She shut him up by plunging his cock back inside her mouth, and when her tongue dragged against the sensitive head, Jaime moaned and grasped the lip of the truck. With his other hand, Jaime guided her gently closer, again and again, until he felt the pressure build and build. Just as he was about to spill into her mouth, Jaime panted, “Sansa, Sansa, I’m gonna…”

            His climax hit like summer storm, heavy and quick and electrifying. His seed began to burst into the heat of her mouth, but Jaime quickly pulled away and worked the rest onto the grass. From the corner of his eye, he saw a surprised look cross her face, and Sansa blushed, spitting the white substance onto the ground She stood and grabbed the edge of the blanket from the truck bed, then Jaime shot her a grateful smile as he wiped himself clean.

            “What are you staring at?” Jaime asked, when he finally looked back up and tossed the blanket aside. Sansa’s eyes were trained on his mostly nude body, and she did not meet his gaze until Jaime reached to pull his boxers on.

            “You,” she whispered. Sansa jumped up to sit on the bed, and Jaime climbed eagerly after her. As he stretched back on the soft pile, Sansa curled into him, her leg over his, her arm slung across his chest. “You’re beautiful too, you know,” she murmured. Sansa kissed his jaw, then settled into the crook of his shoulder. “Was…was what I did ok?”

            Jaime shifted to gaze down at her. He tilted her chin up with a finger and captured her lips with an open-mouthed kiss. “It was more than ok.” Sure, Sansa’s first blow job had been clumsy and a little timid, but it was everything Jaime had ever dreamed of—the fact that it wasn’t a dream still shocked him. He knew he should feel dirty and lecherous and ashamed, but Sansa’s mouth, open and willing just for him, only felt good. She made him feel better than he ever had before, in so many ways. “You were so perfect, Sansa,” he told her with a another kiss.

            Sansa seemed pleased at that, and she grinned against his lips. After she settled back against his chest, a comfortable silence spread across the starry sky. Jaime listened to the owls hooting, the crickets chirping, the rush of wind through the leaves and the cars drifting past in the distance. He listened to the world and her breaths and the peaceful mixing of the two until a thought finally crept through. “I never wished you happy birthday,” he said quietly.

            She stirred against him, then chuckled. “I didn’t exactly expect you to.”

            “It was a big day,” Jaime said lightly, brushing his fingers up and down her thigh. “You only turn eighteen once, you know.”

            “Does it bother you?”

            “Does what?”

            “Me being so young.”

            Jaime pressed his lips together as his hand trailed up to rest on the curve of her hip. “Only knowing how you should be with someone better,” he said, his voice low and honest. “Someone you chose to be with, who could care for you from the very start.”

            “I _did_ choose you.”

            Jaime sighed. “Does my age bother you?” he asked.

            Sansa’s finger drew circles into his bare chest, lazily and idle. “Maybe it should. But if it wasn’t you, it would be some other man twice my age, or some man I hardly knew. That’s how it works in Westeros,” she said bitterly. “They parade us debutantes in front of the town, pretending it’s all about us. It’s our day. But in the end, it’s just a chance to get the right matches set up. If this hadn’t happened,” she said, waving to the midnight sky, “I’d be married off anyway. To Joffrey, to some other man…I’m glad I got to choose, Jaime. I’d choose you if you were twenty or fifty.”

            He chucked and tugged her closer, guiding her over to straddle his lap. He kissed her with a mouth full of laughter, smoothed his hands up her arched spine. “Fifty?” he asked into her mouth.

            “Mhm,” Sansa answered. Her lips parted, and her tongue swirled in to dance against his own.

            Jaime sat up, holding her to his chest as she settled against him. They kissed and held each other like that, slowly as the river back home. And when Sansa finally climbed off him, his arms wrapped around her, tucking her into the curve of his body. They fell asleep together, blanketed in each other and the summer night.

 

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short and sweet one. As always, thank you SO much for reading and please send me all your Downstream, JaimexSansa thoughts...


	14. Free Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one for this week, but I hope you enjoy all the same! I also wanted to direct ya'll to my tumblr https://not-so-quiet-on-the-inside.tumblr.com/. Please feel free to message me if you ever want to chat about Downstream or anything else!

****

**Thursday July 21, 1977**

            It was the soreness that hit him first—the deep ache in his back from a night pressed against the metal truck bed. Jaime stirred, groaning, but as his hand reached out to draw Sansa to him, he found only empty comforter and air already heavy with the threat of rain. As his eyes flew open, he sat upright, confirming that he was indeed alone in the truck.

            _Shit._

            Baelish had found them— _such a fucking idiot,_ Jaime cursed, throwing back the blankets and jumping down from the truck. How stupid could he have been, staying out here in the open just across the Georgia border? Jaime tugged on his shirt and jeans. Barefoot, he stepped out into the forest clearing. Birds chirped and leaves rustled, but other than that, the RV lot was still empty. Jaime breathed out a sigh, but the hammering in his heart continued. _Maybe she’s gone to pee,_ he mused.

 _Or maybe Baelish took her in the night._ Was it possible? Could Jaime have really slept through her screams and struggles? _Shit, shit shit…_ Jaime whirled around, trying to decide which direction to begin his search, but the trees all looked the damn same. “Fuck,” Jaime seethed, pushing back his sleep-mussed hair.

            Twigs cracked from behind. Jaime’s head snapped towards the sound to see Sansa moving towards him through the woods, a faint smile on her lips. She had changed into the cutoffs and a tank top, though her feet were still bare, stained with soil, wet with dew.

            “Goddamn, Sansa,” Jaime breathed out. “I thought you were gone.”

            “Sorry,” she said, her smile fading. She stepped up to him, her eyes drifting over his tired face. “I wanted to stretch my legs—that truck’s a bitch to sleep in, you know.”

            “Oh, I know,” Jaime muttered.

            Sansa reached for his hand, and a sly smile curved her pretty mouth as his fingers caught hers. “You know what might make things better?”

            “You?” Jaime answered with a smirk. He tugged her closer and captured her lips.

            Sansa let out a throaty reply of pleasure before pulling away. “Something even better,” she told him. “Follow me.”

            Jaime wasn’t sure what could be better than her, happy and willing before him, but he allowed her to pull him into the woods anyway. They walked in silence for a couple minutes. Jaime relished the feel of her small hand in his, the way those shorts hugged her ass as she strode before him, the air still cool before the heat of the day set in. When the trees began to grow sparser, a lake emerged through the branches. A soft brown shore slopped down to the water’s edge, and while green tangles of plants clung to the lake’s border, the middle was clean, smooth as glass.

            “Is this a way to tell me I need a shower?” Jaime mused as they came to a stop at the edge of the sand. “Because baby, I ain’t the only one in need of a good wash around here.”

            Sansa rolled her eyes. “Do you always have to be so snide?”

            Jaime grinned. “Only to the people I like.”

            A blush tinged her cheeks, and she quickly looked away. “It’s not too cold,” she said, eyeing the lake. “I’ll race you to the water.”

            He raised a brow. “You really think you can beat me?”

            Sansa’s lips parted to answer, but instead her hands reached down to grasp the hem of her tank. She pulled the thing over her head, revealing a black bra beneath. Her eyes danced as she reached down for the button of her shorts, and with a start Jaime realized that he had been staring for far too long. Sansa was already shimmying out of the tight denim when he fumbled for his own shirt, already sprinting towards the lake as he kicked out of his Levi’s.

            Jaime caught her just as her toes met the water. She shrieked as his arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her up and spinning her around back towards the shore. He made a break for it, splashing up to his hips when a hand caught his, pulling him back.

            “Careful there,” Jaime growled playfully. He used her own weight against her, yanking her towards him with such a sudden force that she was whisked off her feet, laughing and stumbling as he drew her back into his chest.

            “Hey!” Sansa cried out as he carried her deeper into the lake.

            “Does this mean I win?” Jaime muttered into the crevice of her neck.

            Sansa squirmed in his arms, but even with her facing away, he could see the smile on her lips. “Maybe.”

            “Maybe?” He nipped at her ear, earning a breath full of giggles.

            “Ok, ok, fine! You beat me,” she answered. Jaime finally released her, and Sansa turned around to face him. Her cheeks were flushed, the ends of her hair just barely wet. A bra strap had slid down, revealing her bare, freckled shoulder.

            Jaime wadded backwards into the water until his feet lifted from the spongy ground. As Sansa drifted towards him, her hair began to float out, a dark halo against the paleness of her skin. “What’s my prize?” he asked in a low voice.

            The girlish smile from before faded into something more serious. The blue of her eyes flashed as her lashes dipped demurely to the water. She spoke softly, her fingers skimming the soft surface of the lake. “You choose.”

            He swam to her, wrapping her in his arms without warning. With a gentle touch, Jaime pulled the bra strap back in place, then cupped her cheek. Water dripped. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Her legs hooked around his hips. “Then I choose you,” he whispered. Droplets slid down her face, over her lips, rippling against the lake’s glassy surface. Jaime kissed her.

            It had begun to rain.  

 

* * *

 

            By the time they reemerged from the lake, the downpour had stopped, but the clothes left on the bank were thoroughly soaked. They tugged them on anyway and strode hand-in-hand back towards the truck. Sansa pulled at her clinging tank-top, smiling all the way.

            Her smile fell as they broke through the tree-line. The door to the tuck was flung open—a figure sat behind the wheel, and a middle-aged woman was busy rummaging through the duffle bag Jaime had left in the bed.

            His hand slipped from hers. “Hey!” Jaime roared, racing towards the truck. The woman froze as Sansa stood there, helplessly watching, unsure whether to stand back or help.

            “Marty, we got to go!” the woman hollered, presumably to the man up front. Just as Jaime reached the truck, the woman let out a high-pitched cackle. She tossed the duffle to the ground, clambered into the truck, and gave the metal siding a slap. “So long, fuckers!”

            The engine roared. Jaime skidded to a halt. Tires squelched, mud flew, then the truck tore off towards the road.

            “Fuck!” Jaime shouted, his hands behind his head.

            Sansa bit her lip as the rumbling of the truck disappeared into the wooded distance. “Jaime…” she began, stepping up to him. She put a tentative hand on his side. Jaime jerked away, his hard eyes dropping to the duffle. He sank to his knees and began rummaging through it, checking the wallet now cleared of cash but a few stray bills. Jaime threw it aside and plunged his hand back beneath the clothes. When he withdrew, silver flashed against his palm. _So they didn’t steal the gun._ She wondered if it was for better or worse.

            “Jaime,” she tried again, this time without the touch. Sansa moved around to kneel in front of him.

            His eyes shot up. “Why aren’t you upset?”

            “It’s just a truck, Jaime,” she said weakly.

            “It’s not just a damn truck, Sansa,” he growled, standing. She rose too and eyed the gun hanging loosely in his hand, as if Jaime didn’t even realize it was still there. “It’s our only way out of this Goddamn mess!” The gun waved through the air, punctuating his bitter words with a gleam of silver.

            “We’ll figure something out. Get another car—”

            “Another? With what fucking cash?”

            Sansa stepped back. “Stop it,” she snapped. “You’re scaring me.”

            “I’m scaring…” Jaime’s face paled, and he looked from her to the gun in his hand. It dropped back into the the duffle. “Shit, Sansa. I didn’t mean to—”

            “It’s ok,” she said quickly, closing the distance between them. Sansa took his hand, still damp and wrinkled from their swim. “We’ll be ok, Jaime. Do you hear me?” He didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t nod. He didn’t drop her hand either, though. She took it as a good sign. “But Jaime…” Sansa took a shaky breath. “It really does scare me when you react like that,” she said carefully. The memory of Jaime standing above Mr. Baelish’s body flashed through her mind—his fury, his gun, how helpless she had been to whatever he decided.

            Jaime took a hard swallow. “I know,” he muttered, squeezing her hand. His eyes dragged back over, framed beneath brows crumpled in boyish shame. “I’m sorry.”

            She nodded and tried to ignore the nerves fluttering in her belly. “It was a pretty crappy truck anyway,” she said softly.

            The corner of Jaime’s lip twitched into a smile.

 

            With their duffle slung over Jaime’s shoulder and dry clothes pulled on—Jaime in a striped button down and light-wash jeans, Sansa back in her bellbottoms and a halter top—they set off for the road. With no truck or town or much cash, their only option was to hitchhike. Jaime had spat at the idea when she brought it up, but she knew he was thinking the same. It was dangerous, sure, but with Jaime and the gun, how bad could it be? Of all the roads, in all the states they could have escaped Georgia to, what was the likelihood that someone would find them?

            _Too high,_ Sansa thought as she looked out towards the empty road. The rain had darkened it into a deep shade of grey, but with the clouds still swirling overhead, she was sure the asphalt could drink its fill to an ominous black. Sansa sat in the grass several feet back, her elbows on her knees as she observed Jaime by the road’s edge. He had insisted that she stay back while he tried to flag down cars, arguing that only men with sin on their minds would stop for a pretty girl. Already a dozen cars had zipped towards them, and already a dozen cars had zipped past.

            “You should give me a turn,” Sansa called out.

            Jaime twisted towards her, letting his outstretched thumb relax by his side. “That so?”

            “It’s been nearly an hour,” she said. “You’re scaring everyone off.”

            He scoffed. “No I’m not.”

            “You _are._ No one’s gonna stop for a man like you. Not without seeing me too, of course.”

            “A man like me?”

            Sansa worried her lip and pushed herself to her feet. Jaime didn’t need another reminder of how others saw him—her included. “Just take a break,” she said as she stepped through the scraggily grass.

            Jaime scowled. “Ten minutes.”

            “Ten minutes,” she agreed.

            It was another five until a car finally emerged around the bend— _not a car_ , Sansa realized as it drove closer. _A truck, and even shittier than ours._ A tarp fluttered from the bed, covering a big pile of _something_ from the threat of rain. Sansa held her thumb up higher and put on her prettiest smile. A man sat behind the wheel, grey-haired and aged, maybe in his late fifties. A honk rang out as the truck began to slow, and she heard Jaime’s footsteps approach from behind.

            The truck stopped, then the man cranked down his window. A kind face emerged, his laugh-lines framed with a grey beard. “You need a ride, miss?” His eyes lifted to up as Jaime’s hand settled on her shoulder. “And you too, mister?”

            “We do,” Jaime said before she could respond. “Don’t matter where you’re goin’.”

            The man’s bushy brows rose in surprise, then he stuck out a hand. Scars crept between his fingers, over the backs of his spotted hands. “Name’s Seaworth,” he said pleasantly. “But ya’ll can call me Davos if it please you.”

            “Kevin,” Jaime said, shaking it.

            “And who might you be?” he asked, holding out a hand to Sansa.

            “Alayne.”

            The man nodded brusquely, but his crooked smile reassured her. Already, Sansa could tell she liked this man. He reminded her of her grandfather Hoster before he died. Curt, maybe, but gentle as a man could be.

            “Well Kevin, Alayne,” he said, jerking his thumb to the passenger side door. “Those seem like decent enough names to me. Hop right in.”

 

            A Lynyrd Skynyrd cassette crackled out song after song as they rushed past the Alabama countryside. Davos had launched into his story as soon as they took off, and Jaime and Sansa were only too happy to listen to the man talk. She sat between them on the single stretch of bench, pressed against Jaime’s shoulder as they relaxed into his tale. Davos was a WWII vet, or so he told them. A ship captain in the navy before an injury at the hands of the Germans sent him back home to Louisiana. He’d left that “piece of shit-stinking swamp” soon enough and set off for a new life doing odd-jobs across the country. With a wife at home and seven sons to provide for, Davos worked the summers no one else wanted. Of course he missed his family dearly, but he loved the open road too. Davos couldn’t imagine a life without road-side coffee black as night, stars for a roof instead of plaster, the friends he always managed to circle back to.

            Sansa glanced up at Jaime and found him smiling at the man’s story. _He likes the sound of that life,_ she thought. _But does he imagine me there too?_

            “So what about you two?”

            Sansa looked back towards the man as “Free Bird” drifted from the stereo. “What about us?” she asked carefully.

            “How’d you end up on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere-fucking-Alabama?”

            “We…we wanted a new start,” she answered. “Figured we’d see what could happen if we just packed up and left.”

            “Ah,” Davos said, nodding and tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Lovebirds, are ya?”

            Heat rushed to her cheeks. Her lips parted, but before she could even begin to stumble over her words, Jaime spoke up instead. “How did you know?” he asked casually. His fingers intertwined with hers, and Sansa let him pull her hand into his lap.

            _Right, we’re pretending to be normal. A normal couple in love._ Sansa took a steadying breath.

            Davos chuckled, a deep belly-laugh that rumbled through the truck. “Oh, I remember what it was like to be loved and in love,” he said, glancing over to wink at Sansa. He laughed, probably at how red her cheeks still were. “So were you two headed?” he asked, gratefully changing the subject.

            “Like I said, we’re not too picky,” Jaime answered.

            “You might be after you hear we’re I’m going.”

            “That so?”

            Davos nodded. As the road curved into a straight stretch beneath the stormy sky, he propped his elbow up on the window ledge and ran a hand over his wiry beard. “How do ya’ll feel about Los Angeles?”

            Sansa’s brows popped up. “Hollywood?” She’d only ever seen photos, seen the movies on the television. She and Margaery used to spend hours wasting away summer days staring at the slender actresses splayed across the glossy pages of _People_ magazine.

            “Not quite Hollywood, darling, but close,” Davos told her. “I got to make some stops here and there, and it’s gonna take about two damn weeks. Now, you said you ain’t picky, but California is pretty far west—”

            “Yes,” Jaime jumped in. “I mean,” he began, glancing down at Sansa, “LA would be perfect for us. We’ll pay you, of course, as soon as I can find a bank—”

            Davos waved him off. “Save your money for your girl. You’re gonna need it in that city.”

            Sansa frowned and said, “Mr. Seaworth—”

            “Mr. Seaworth only requires some Goddamn company,” he said. Sansa fell quiet. “My job…it gets lonely. If I got two sets of ears for a couple weeks, then that’s all I need. Understand?”

            Sansa smiled, first at Davos, then at Jaime. He grinned back at her and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes, sir.”

            Davos _hmphed_. “Good. Now ya’ll better not start kissing, or I’ll know you ain’t paying attention to this old man’s stories…”


	15. Road Trip

****

**Thursday July 21 – Tuesday August 2, 1977  
**

            The next several days passed by in the creaking beds of roadside motels, in the winding roads that cut valleys through the farms and fields and forests, in Davos’s truck which groaned when he shifted into higher gears and smelled like chewing tobacco no matter how long the windows stayed open. From Alabama they drove northwest to Arkansas, from Arkansas to Oklahoma, then a dip down to Arizona where the land turned red and the trees crumpled into low-lying grasses that stretched for miles towards nowhere at all.

            Between the hours on the highway, Davos would pull off into towns so small they made Westeros look like a city. In each one, he’d stop at different places—a tiny post office in Sulphur Springs, a church well-rotted from the rain in Sweetwater, a sprawling plantation in the belly of a town with no name at all, at least not on the crinkled maps Davos hoarded in his truck. On the third time Davos left them in the truck while he carried a crate marked as onions into the back entrance of a gas station, Jaime wondered aloud if there were more than onions under that tarp flapping behind them.

            Sansa had raised her brows. “Like what?”

            Jaime gave her a mischievous grin and a nipping kiss on the throat that left her breathless. By the time Davos returned, they were both stifling laughter as the old man pushed on the gas and led them rumbling out of town.

            The days in the truck were hot and squished and filled with endless music whistling out the stereo, story after story about Davos and the navy, his sweet wife and handful of kids. In the evenings, when the temperature dropped and the sky faded to a star-scattered blue, they slept in shared motel rooms; Davos in one bed, Sansa and Jaime in the other. At first Jaime had been frustrated with the arrangement, and Sansa couldn’t say she was all too pleased either, but with Davos paying for their quarters, she was more than happy to fall asleep in Jaime’s arms.

            Somewhere between the dusty roads and towns, between the stolen kisses in the seat of Davos’s truck and all three of them belting songs into the empty sky, Sansa realized she was happy.

            Maybe they’d made it after all.

 

* * *

 

**Wednesday August 3, 1977**

Moonlight pooled on the small bed, turning Sansa’s face milk-white as she gazed back at him. Her hair had faded into a ashy brown, and in the pale light he could almost pretend it was red again. The open window let the sounds of the Arizona night drift in—wind and cars and a coyote howling somewhere in the desert—but Davos’s snores drowned it all away. A particularly loud one ripped through the room.

            “Stop laughing,” Sansa whispered.

            Jaime gave her an incredulous grin. “I didn’t laugh!” he insisted.

            “You were thinking it.”

            Jaime relented with a gentle kiss. With his hand on her thigh, Jaime played absently with the hem of her borrowed t-shirt, feeling the texture of the cotton give way to the softness of her leg. Sansa smiled at his touch, and though he let his fingers dip beneath to cover her hip, Jaime restrained himself from delving further. On the first night sharing a room with Davos, Sansa had laid out the rules: no _stuff_ when the man was in the room. Jaime had teased her for calling sex “stuff,” but he agreed anyway. They hadn’t done anything but make-out since the night in the truck, and with the new rules left Jaime feeling half a frustrated teenager, half an addict who couldn’t get his mind off the idea of feeling himself inside her again.

            He let out a sigh as his hand stilled against the curve of her hip. “What are _you_ thinking about?” Jaime asked her.

            Even in the moonlight, Jaime could see her cheeks flush pink. “You.”

            “Me?”

            She bit her lip, and the sight had his cock twitching in his boxers. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

            Jaime frowned. His hand slid away from her skin to smooth the hair at her temple. “I don’t want you to feel embarrassed.”

            “I know, I know…” She took a deep breath as her lashes lowered to the sheets. “I just…after the first time we had…sex, and then that time in the truck…It got be thinking. About you and me and what we are.”

            _Ah._ Jaime tucked her dark hair behind her ear. It was easy to forget how innocent Sansa had been before all this, how everything about their lives was new now. _Because of me,_ Jaime thought darkly. _She’d still be happy at home being a real teenager if it wasn’t for me and my family_. “What do you want us to be?”

            Sansa breathed out a frustrated sigh and rolled over onto her back. “I don’t like answering these questions.”

            “Hey,” Jaime said gently, taking her hand in his own. “I just want to know how you feel.” He didn’t tell her it was because he wanted—no, _needed_ —to find out if she felt differently, if she wanted to never share a bed or kiss or everything else again once they got to safety. If she wanted out as soon as _out_ was an option.

            “You know those stories Davos tells about Mara and his sons?”

            “The ones that he’s already told us a dozen times?”

            Sansa smiled up at the ceiling. “It’s so stupid, but when he talks about how happy he his every chance he gets to see them, how there’s nothing better in the world than his wife’s smile or seeing his son ride a bike for the first time...” She sat up to look down at him, hair falling back in front of her cheek. A nervous breath escaped her lips, then Sansa gave in as Jaime tugged her closer. “I want that, Jaime,” she whispered as she settled back into his chest. “With you.”

            Jaime gazed at her, his eyes drifting over her face, searching for the doubt he expected to find. Sansa bit her lip and kept her own gaze away, but other than her nerves, Jaime could find no sense that she said it just to please him. His hand found the nape of her neck, and with his fingers threaded through her hair, Jaime pulled her close. When her lips met his, soft and open, a sigh escaped between them. From who, he wasn’t sure.

            “I want that too,” Jaime whispered into her mouth.

            A weight sank into his stomach at the selfish words, even if they were true. Sansa’s dream was pretty, but it was just that—a dream. A dream he wanted so desperately but knew was damn near impossible. A girl like Sansa Stark didn’t end up with a man like him. Not in the end, anyway. Not with the whole world fighting against it.

            They sank back into the blankets. Eventually, Sansa drifted off to sleep, her head pillowed against his heart. And when sleep finally found him too, Jaime dreamed of his red-headed girl and his mother’s favorite tree and a terrible storm that washed them both far, far away.

 

            When the morning light hit and the little bedside clock rolled over to 8 AM, Jamie woke to Sansa still half-asleep and curled up beside him in bed. Across the room, Davos still slumbered and snored, his barrel chest rising and falling peacefully. “Morning, sweetheart,” Jaime murmured into Sansa’s ear. “There’s a diner nearby if you wanna come to breakfast.” His stomach had been groaning for at least an hour before finally rousing him from a fitful sleep.

            She stirred and drew a pillow into her face. Jaime chuckled, pressed a kiss into her hair, and slid out of bed. Once dressed, Jaime quietly closed the motel door behind him and stepped out into the day already scorched from the blazing sun. Trucks sat before him, heavy with cargo, still and silent as their owners made their way from the little truck-stop motel to the tiny diner. Jaime blinked into the sun and stepped out into the stretch of flat parking lot. Dust rolled across the land as a breeze ruffled his hair, sending his jaw-length locks into tangles.

            Jaime wound his way through the trucks until he arrived at the little silver building. Windows clouded from age and desert winds greeted him with the sight of tables already filled with men in thin flannel, women in aprons with coffee spots steaming in their hands. With a slight smile, Jaime pulled open the door and stepped inside.

            The clatter of cutlery and quiet chatter met his ears. A few pairs of eyes drifted his way, and Jaime wondered if any of them had seen him by the motel, if they’d whispered and frowned at the pretty teenager getting a room with two men twice and three-times her age. He knew it wouldn’t be the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Fortunately, no one except the brown-haired girl behind the counter said a word.

            With the cash Davos had insisted he take, Jaime ordered a few coffees and boxes of flapjacks to-go. Once the girl slid a heavy paper bag back across the counter, Jaime made for the door. As a pair of wizened men in mesh caps approached from outside, Jaime paused to hold the door open.

            “Mornin,” one of the men said with a curt nod.

            “Mornin.”

            Jaime let the door swing shut behind them then turned back towards their motel across the parking lot. A truck pulled in off from the highway, and as Jaime paused to let it pass, a ringing blared from beside him. Jaime frowned and turned; by the side of the diner, a silver payphone booth glinted in the sun.

            _Ring-Ring-Ring!_

Jaime’s head snapped around, looking for someone that might be waiting for the call. But the outside of the diner was deserted, the trucks still, the motel sleeping across the parking lot. Wind chased tumbleweeds across the field of gray.

            Dread washed over Jaime as he approached the phone, closed his fingers around the hot black plastic, and held it up to his ear. “Hello?” Jaime said hoarsely.

            Static cut through the line before a voice replaced it, low and calm and so familiar it sent ice racing through his veins. “Hello, Jaime,” his father answered. Jaime’s lips cracked open, then he tore the phone away from his ear. Panic washed over him, but the voice grew louder from the speaker. “Now don’t hang up, Jaime. I just want to talk.”

            Trembling, Jaime lifted the phone back to his ear. “Bullshit,” he hissed, spit spraying onto the plastic. “How did you find me?”

            Tywin scoffed on the other end. “Is that really the question you’re interested in? No, Jaime, it’s not,” he answered before Jaime could reply. “You ought to be asking what’s going on in your motel room.”

            Jaime whipped around. His eyes flew to the third window from the right. The curtains were still drawn, Davos’s truck was still parked a few spaced down. Just as he’d left it, as far as he could see. “What did you—”

            “While you were busy getting breakfast,” Tywin said, his voice snapping Jaime into silence, “my man Gregor broke into your room. By now he should have your little plaything under control—”

            The phone clanked against the silver booth. The paper bag landed on the sidewalk with a _thud_.

 

* * *

 

            With her elbows propped on the dresser, Sansa peered down at the map Davos has spread out before them. “If this is route 40,” Sansa said, tracing a finger along the thicker line cutting west through the paper, “then the Grand Canyon will be right by us!”

            Davos laughed. “If I had known I’d be dragging tourists all over the country, you can best believe I would have picked a later date to arrive in LA.”

            She pouted and lifted her eyes to meet his. “We can’t even stop for a few minutes? Please?”

            “I’ll tell you what—next time you and that man of yours want to see the Grand Canyon, you look up old Davos Seaworth in the Montgomery phonebook.”

            Sansa let out a dramatic sigh as Davos chuckled and began folding the map back up. “I’m not sure Jaime will ever let us go back to see you in Alabama.”

            Davos turned to stuff the map back inside his bag. “How come?”

            “Kevin…he wants to keep me safe.”

            “Safe, huh? He’d do better to keep you happy. That’s what I always tell myself when I’m home with Mara. If the wife ain’t happy, then—”

            _Bang!_

            Sansa and Davos jumped and looked towards the door. Jaime stood frozen in the threshold, his wild eyes darting from her to the old man. His chest heaved, and sweat beaded his brow. “Kevin?” Sansa asked, frowning. “What’s wrong? Did you get breakfast?”

            “Shit, shit, shit…the bastard didn’t know which room…he didn’t know which room. _Shit!_ ” Jaime strode towards their duffle bag and yanked it off the bed. He began throwing clothes in with the frenzy of a madman.

            Sansa met Davos’s perturbed gaze. “What happened?”

            Davos shrugged and looked back towards Jaime now kneeling on the floor as he stuffed Sansa’s pajamas into the bag. He cleared his throat. “Kevin, if you’d like to clue the rest of us in on what’s going on…”

            Jaime zipped shut the duffle and rose, slinging it over his shoulder. In one hard step he crossed the room towards Sansa. “We have to go now,” he snapped, fingers closing around her wrist. “Both of you, we need to leave now.”

            He began to tug her forward, but a cold wash of dread kept Sansa’s bare feet glued to the carpet. “He found us, didn’t he?” she breathed out, not even caring that Davos was listening to their every word. “Mr. Baelish.”

            Jaime stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder. “No,” he whispered, voice cracked and low. “My father.” He glanced at Davos, glanced down at his fingers digging in to her wrist. “But that doesn’t matter! What matters is we have to leave right now before—”

            Sansa’s gaze lifted from Jaime to the open doorway. A man filled the threshold, his sheer size blocking out almost every inch of light from outside. With a shock of adrenaline to her heart, Sansa realized where she had seen that ugly, red face before. _The McDonalds._

            “Jaime!” Sansa screamed.

            Both Jaime and Davos whipped around towards the door, and with Jaime no longer blocking her view, Sansa’s eyes fell on the knife glinting in the man’s hand. Twelve inches of steel cut through the air, and with a gasp, Sansa realized this was no ordinary kitchen knife.

            Tywin had sent a butcher, and they were his meat to slaughter.

            The man stepped into the room. His beady eyes fell on Sansa, then a thin smile stretched open to reveal yellow teeth. “Give me the girl, and no one else gets hurt.”

            Jaime’s hand inched towards duffle by his side. “Turn around, and I won’t send your head back to my father,” he said, slowly unzipping the bag.

            The man grunted out a laugh, his eyes never leaving Sansa. “Tywin never said anything about keeping her untouched,” he said, peeling off her dress with a flick of his hard gaze. “Maybe you’d like to watch.”

            Jaime’s fingers dipped into the bag. When they withdrew, a hint of silver glimmered against his palm. Sansa took a sharp intake of breath and stepped back, her spine digging painfully into the edge of the dresser. Beside her, Davos inched forward, his eyes on the gun hidden in Jaime’s hand.

            The butcher’s ragged breaths filled the silence. Pounding filled Sansa’s ears.

            Outside, a truck sputtered to life.

            “ _The bathroom_ ,” Davos whispered.

            Sansa saw him from the corner of her eyes, saw him breath the words out once more. Her eyes shot towards the door on the back wall. _Is there a lock on that door?_ She didn’t remember—couldn’t remember.

            The man lunged at Jaime just as he drew the gun from the bag. Davos shoved her towards the bathroom door. Surprised, Sansa stumbled to the ground, knees scraping against the carpet. Pain pricked her skin. Jaime jumped to the side. Davos ripped a lamp from the dresser. Sansa sucked in a breath and began to crawl, her trembling limbs unable to work in any other way.

            The gun went off, but the fighting continued. Jaime’s breaths, Davos’s grunts, the man’s hisses and curses, they blurred together into a song that sent tears to her eyes and panicked gasps to her throat. Just as her knees hit the cool tiles of the bathroom floor and she slammed the door shut behind her, another shot rang out.

            Her shaking arm rose up towards the handle, and in the dark Sansa fumbled for a lock. When she found nothing but smooth brass, a strangled cry bubbled up through her lips.

            _Please, God,_ Sansa prayed, shutting her eyes to the tears that blurred the darkness. _Please, God, let him live. Let them both live._

            Two more shots screamed out, followed by a yelp of pain that could only be Jaime.

            “Jaime!” Sansa cried. She twisted and closed her fingers around the doorknob, felt its coolness against the sweaty heat of her palm.

            _If Jaime dies, what does it matter if I do?_

            _If Jaime dies, I have nowhere else to go._

            Sansa whispered one more prayer, and when God gave her no answer but the pounding in her heart, Sansa rose to her feet. She clasped the handle, pulled it open, let the light spill in.

            The sight in the room had the blood draining from her face. The butcher had trapped Davos on the floor. With his knife forgotten, the man pounded his huge fists into the old man’s jaw. His huge legs straddled Davos’s waist, keeping him pinned beneath him. Davos struggled against him, but Sansa could tell he would not last much longer. Her eyes flew to Jaime slumped against the far wall. Red speckled his shirt, his face.

            Fear stuck in her throat. _Is he…_ Sansa tore her eyes away—she couldn’t think about that now, not with Davos still trapped beneath Tywin’s man.

            Sansa scanned the room for Jaime’s gun or the knife, but when she found neither, her eyes landed on the lamp Davos had torn from the wall. The bulb had smashed, but the solid, porcelain base looked heavy enough. Sansa tiptoed towards it as the man’s knuckles flew, and Davos just barely managed to twist away.

            Sansa picked up the lamp. Flesh smashed into flesh.

            She stepped towards the two men. Davos cried out. His hands slipped away from the other man’s chest.

            She held the lamp high over her shoulder, then with a scream brought it down on the butcher’s head. Bone cracked. The man bellowed. She hit him again and again until he crumpled.

            Davos gasped as the man fell lifeless on top of him. “Alayne, help me—”

            She threw the lamp onto a bed and dropped to her knees. Groaning, Davos began to shove the man away, and with Sansa’s help they managed to roll him off. Bruised skin bloomed against Davos’s jaw. “Davos, you’re hurt,” she whispered. She reached for his shoulder to pull him up, but Davos waved her off.

            “Check on Kevin. We need to get out of here before that brute wakes up,” he managed to wheeze out before a bout of coughing took over.

            Sansa bit her lip but did as he asked. When she reached Jaime, tears pooled in her eyes. A cut had slashed open his cheek, caking his blonde hair red, dripping down his throat to stain his shirt. “Jaime,” Sansa choked out. Shaking fingers explored the rest of him, but when she found no other cuts or gunshots, relived tears streamed down her cheeks. “Jaime,” Sansa whispered. Salt slipped between her lips as she cupped Jaime’s face, careful to avoid the cut. “He’s not waking up!”

            Footsteps stepped up from behind, then a heavy hand found her shoulder. Sansa leaned into the pressure, let her body fall back against the solid wall of Davos’s legs. “Is he breathing?”

            Sansa made herself lean forward. She pressed her ear against his lips made slippery from blood. Shallows breaths washed over her ear. “Yes,” she whispered.

            The hand at her shoulder gave her a pat. “Good.” Davos kneeled down beside her, and as his hands reached out to examine Jaime, Sansa drew her own hands back. She clutched herself tightly as she watched the man work. The man _tsked_ when he searched the cut. “It’s deep,” Davos said in a low voice. “But nothing I haven’t seen before.”

            “You can fix him?”

             “Aye, the cut I can stich up. You’re lucky I was somewhat of a doctor in the war,  
 Davos said. “He should wake up too before long. That brute threw him hard into the dresser, and he’ll have a lump behind his head, but that’s all.”

            “Thank you,” Sansa whimpered, dragging the heel of her hand across her cheek.  

            Davos gently leaned Jaime’s head back against the wall and turned towards Sansa. A troubled look creased his face, and when his eyes met Sansa’s, she found herself squirming beneath it. “I’ll help him, but not before you tell me what the fuck you’ve dragged me into.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action scenes are always tough for me to write, but the plot must go on! I hope you enjoyed, and please let me know your thoughts! I love this story, but comments are really what keep me going.  
> Also I hope you like the new chapter photos! I saw it done on another fic and thought I'd give it a shot :)


	16. Whatever's Coming

            

            After Davos retrieved the first aide kit from his truck, he knelt back down before Jaime. Sansa watched him with wavering eyes, wringing her hands as Davos set to work cleaning the cut. She took a deep breath as Davos wiped a silver needle clean with disinfectant, poked the suture thread through the eye.

            “You’ll want to look away now, girl,” Davos said quietly.

            Sansa obeyed, though she let her fingers slide down to grip Jaime’s. Turned away, her eyes fell on the unconscious man Tywin had sent. “Sansa,” she whispered, squeezing Jaime’s hand. “My name’s Sansa.”

            Davos _hmphed._ “And this here is Jaime, I suppose?”

            She nodded. “It’s gonna sound crazy, but…but this man here, the one that attacked…he was sent by Jaime’s father. Sent to drag me back home.”

            Sansa spoke softly as Davos sewed the crimson fissure closed. She began hesitantly, but soon the whole story came spilling out—meeting Jaime for the first time on the porch across the street, learning of his secret past, feeling the sting of his betrayal at the debutante ball. Davos simply nodded along, and soon Sansa found her gaze turning back around to watch his surprisingly nimble fingers at work. By the time Sansa had no more tale to tell (except for the details of her feelings for Jaime, of the sex and fighting and kissing), Davos had already washed the rest of Jaime’s skin free from the dried blood and tended to the blow to his head. He turned to her then, his kind eyes misty with something between sorrow and pity.

            “I know it’s hard to believe, but—"

            “Sansa,” he said gruffly, averting his gaze towards their intertwined hands. “Of course I believe you.”

            She blinked, surprised. “You do?”

            “This ain’t the first war story I’ve heard. Trust me on that.”

            _War story._ She’d never quite thought about it like that—never thought much about what they were actually going through at all. She had seen how blue the sky looked no matter how far away she was from home, but she’d never stopped to count how many days had passed, how long this horror had been chasing them. “Thank you,” she told the older man, dropping Jaime’s hand to take Davos’s.

            His brows jumped up, but at his small smile, she smiled too. “Enough of this sappy talk—we better get ya’ll far away before that brute gets up.” Davos pushed to his feet with a weary groan, brushed his palms off on his pants, then looked to Sansa with a gleam in his eye. “You’ll get one arm, I’ll get the other?”

           

            They had been driving a little less than an hour when Jaime finally began to stir, his head rising its place pillowed on her shoulder. Davos hastily pulled off the highway and muttered something about needing a new pack o’spit. Sansa watched him leave through the grimy window until Jaime’s tired voice drew her back.

            “Sansa?” he groaned. His fingers found the back of his head, hissing when they touched the tender spot. “Where are we? Where’s Davos?”

            “Somewhere west, somewhere safe for now—Davos is nearby,” she said, her gaze wandering over his face. “We’re at a rest stop, or a truck stop, or a motel. I don’t really know.” Sansa shifted closer, cradling his good cheek against her palm. Jaime’s eyes met hers, soft and pained and dazed.

            “What’s wrong with you?” He attempted a smirk. It turned into a grimace.  

            Tears welled in her eyes as a weak laugh escaped her lips. “What’s wrong with me?” She brushed his skin with her thumb, smoothed down the hair at his temple. “You’re hurt, Jaime.”

            “I’ve had worse.”

            She rolled her stringing eyes, gave him a tiny shake of her head. “Oh, stop that,” she chided him. “Do you know how that man found us?” The question had been plaguing her ever since he showed up at their doorstep.

            Jaime frowned. “Not really. My father found this place, called the payphone when I was picking up breakfast at the diner. But I didn’t stay on the phone long enough to find out how the bastard did it,” he admitted. “Must have tracked us down to Alabama after those sons of bitches stole our truck, then…”

            She nodded, not wanting Jaime to worry himself too much over it, even if it still bothered her. If Tywin could track them all the way to Arizona, she was sure he could track them to California, to wherever else they ended up next. “I’m scared, Jaime,” Sansa said. She bit her lip and stared down at her lap until two hands slid into view, urging her closer.

            “Come here,” he whispered.

            With a sigh, Sansa shifted to sit on Jaime’s lap; it was a tight squeeze in the truck, and Sansa was forced to wrap her arms around Jaime’s neck, to duck her head so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. Afternoon light streamed in from the windshield, scattering the emerald with flecks of gold. Once, these eyes had intrigued her, terrified her…but now they only made her feel safe. Sansa tore her gaze away and pressed closer, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “I can’t lose you,” Sansa whispered.

            “You won’t.” His hand slid up to cup the back of her head as the other rubbed steady circles into the small of her back. “I promise.”

            What did a promise mean when looking down the barrel of a gun, or the blade of a knife? With the weight of a life on the run dragging behind? She was afraid to ask, afraid to hear her fears vocalized by the person she…

            _The person I love._

            The thought choked her, strangled her throat with tears instead of bruises. Jaime murmured soft words as she cried silent tears into his skin, held her closer than anyone had before. And when the familiar crunch of Davos’s footsteps approaching the truck returned, and Jaime pulled gently away, Sansa could not bear to admit it.

            She loved him. She knew she loved him.

But she could not make herself say it.

 

            The drive to LA was like every other one over the past week; brown lands hurtled past, the songs on the cassettes played and played again, Davos told stories of his sons and wife and the jungle across the Pacific. But the landscape had lost its mystery, the songs their life, the stories their interest. Sansa watched out the window and listened, but she did not see, and she did not hear. The only thing keeping her from drowning completely in her quiet fear was Jaime’s touch. He held her hand against his thigh, let her head droop onto his shoulder, kissed her cheek when they stopped for gas or lights or traffic.

            It was well past midnight when they took the exit off the highway, and this time Davos returned from a motel lobby with two keys instead of one. “I’ll be just down there if ya’ll be needin’ me,” he said, handing Jaime the key. He jerked his thumb towards a door at the other end of the stretch of stucco building, gave them both a curt nod, and began walking off in the other direction. His footsteps shuffled against the concrete until they were left with only the sound of cars rushing past in the distance.

            They moved over to their own room, and when Jaime pushed the door open and flicked on the lights, he revealed the queen sized bed sitting squarely on the orange carpet. The door to the bathroom stood ajar, giving her just a glimpse of the matching peach tiles and tub. Sansa stepped inside, listened to Jaime lock the door behind them, then turned to watch him set the duffle bag down at the foot of the bed. Nerves fluttered in her belly as Jaime straightened back up. How long had it been since they’d been alone—truly alone? Despite knowing that Jaime was just as desperate as she was for their intimacy, it was a different thing to finally get a chance at it again.

            “Are you ok?” he asked, worry creasing his brow.

            She bit her lip. “Yes.” Sansa wrapped her arms around her waist and dropped her gaze. Her skin itched beneath Jaime’s searching stare, and with a sigh she stepped over and sat on the edge of the bed. Jaime kicked off his shoes and padded towards her, moving to stand with his legs on either side of her own. When his hand slid up to cup her cheek, Sansa covered it with her own. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, blushing. It felt silly to say—they had spent a week together without hardly a moment apart. _I was afraid I’d never be with you again_ was more accurate after the hell with Tywin’s butcher. _Afraid I’d never get another taste of your touch._ But she couldn’t say that, could she?

            Jaime dropped to his knees, his hand never leaving her face. Their eyes met as his other hand found its home on her hip. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

            He was always asking her that, wasn’t he? Wanting to know the words trapped inside her skull. But the day had left her throat dry, the words too heavy to say out loud.

            Instead, she answered him with a kiss, gentle and open, but the insistence of Jaime’s lips left her gasping. He gripped her hip and pushed her backwards, guiding her to scamper backwards onto the mattress without his hands ever leaving her body, or his mouth ever leaving hers. Jaime’s hand slid upwards towards her belly, pushing beneath the hem of her t-shirt. Sansa shivered when his cold fingers pressed into her ribs.

            “Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” Jaime murmured, his mouth trailing down to suck bruises into the sensitive skin of her throat.

            “You,” she answered, breathless, spine arched into the weight of his torso. She wound her fingers through his hair, urging him slightly away to look into his eyes. Jaime paused, panting, and held himself over her on his hands.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes, Jaime,” she answered, one hand drawing him in for another kiss, the other fumbling for the buttons of his jeans. “ _Please._ ”

 

            In the shadows of their motel room, in the darkness of some sky above the desert, Jaime stripped her of clothing. When she was bare before him, and he before her, Jaime pushed her back against the pillows. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, both breasts until she begged him to keep going. With her wrists captured in his hand above her head, Jaime settled between her thighs and pushed inside with a gasp of air that sounded something like her name. It hurt at first, like the first time, but as Jaime began to move inside her, Sansa felt the dull ache begin to fade. She wrapped her legs around the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper, smiling at the way he moaned her name into her mouth.

            There was something about almost losing him that made her fear and embarrassment and nerves all fade away.

            Jaime’s thrusts turned fiercer, his fingers tighter, his mouth more desperate than ever she’d tasted it, and still the pressure inside her grew and grew until that same wash of pleasure spilled over her. Seconds later, Jaime released a slew of words so filthy her mama would have washed his mouth out with soap, but when her own name followed his curses, Sansa found she didn’t mind. With a gasp, Jaime pulled out of her, spilling his white, sticky ropes onto the sheets by her thigh.

            Sansa let her head fall back as she gazed softly up at Jaime still straddling her hips. “How was that?”

            Jaime pushed back his sweaty hair with a devilish grin, then settled down beside her. “Baby, I think you already know the answer to that,” he said, pulling her close.

            Sansa curled into his heat, her calf hooked around his, her palms flat against his chest. “Tell me anyway,” she murmured, brushing absently at the dark golden hair.

            Jaime stayed silent for a moment. Only their labored breathing filled the room, their breaths growing gentler as their sweat-slickened bodies cooled to the nighttime air. “When I’m with you, it’s like there’s nothing else,” he said quietly. Sansa pressed herself closer, her lips against his collarbone, feeling the way it rumbled when he spoke. “All the shit that’s followed us—it doesn’t matter.” He pulled back to meet her eyes as his fingers trailed down the curve of her hip. “All I care about is you.”

            She kissed him, a soft brush of her lips against his. When she drew back and stared up at him through her lashes, heat flooded her cheeks. “I feel the same way,” she whispered.

            He smirked. “Can’t say I didn’t see that coming.”

            Sansa rolled her eyes and buried her face in the crook beneath his chin. “Do you always have to be such an asshole?” she complained, smiling into his skin.

            Jaime chuckled. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, pulling her closer until no inch of air was left between them. “I’ll try to be nicer.”

            “No,” she murmured, her words pressed into Jaime’s warmth, so quiet she wasn’t sure if he heard. “I like you just the way you are, Jaime Lannister.” Her eyelids drooped shut, the tempting weight of sleep finally settling down for the night. “Just the way you are.”

 

* * *

 

 **Thursday August 4, 1977**            

            “Baboon,” Jaime suggested.

            “…Caterpillar?”

            “Really, sweetheart? Are caterpillars even animals?”

            Sansa giggled, threading her fingers through Jaime’s and drawing him in for a kiss. “They are if I want them to be! And I couldn’t think of anything else that started with the letter C.”

            Just before his lips reached hers, Jaime paused. “You think you can cheat just because you let me kiss you?”

            The ice of her eyes glinted. “Maybe.”

            “Maybe!”

            Davos cleared his throat, and reluctantly Jaime pulled away. Her hand, though, he kept firmly in his own. “If you two want to shut up about that dumb game, you can finally get a glimpse of the city up ahead.”

            Jaime turned towards the front window. Green hills and deep blue sky parted where the road cut through the land, revealing the flickering lights of the city sprawled out across the valley. “We’re here,” Sansa whispered, her fingers tightening.

            He responded with a comforting squeeze. “How long until we get wherever you’re going?”

            “Another hour or so, depending on the traffic,” Davos answered. He gave Jaime a look out the corner of his eye. “But no more stupid car games, you hear me?” He pushed in the button on the stereo. The Beatles flooded out, louder and louder as Davos cranked up the volume.

            Jaime turned to grin at Sansa. “We’re finally here,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. She smiled, then leaned back and rested her head against his shoulder.

            As the lights ahead grew brighter, and the traffic denser, the familiar cold trickle of worry began to drip down Jaime’s spine. Yes, they had made it across the country to Los Angeles, but how long could they stay? If his father had tracked him to Arizona, then California would be no problem. How far would they have to run until they were safe? How long until it was all for nothing?

           

            The sky had turned golden by the time they reached the heart of LA, and from the way Sansa had her nose pressed up against the window, Jaime knew she was mesmerized. Cars drove bumper-to-bumper through the streets, men and woman in tight pants and bared shoulders strode down the sidewalks with shopping bags in their hands and cigarettes dangling from their lips. Davos drove until brick apartments and crowded movie theaters gave way to glimmering storefronts, mannequins dressed in styles Jaime had only ever seen on television. When Davos noticed how she eyed the clothing, he chuckled and turned them down a side-street.

            “Is this where you’re stopping?” she asked, pulling away from the window.

            “For now,” he said with a grin. “I reckon we better get you something new to wear in this new city before I ditch you.”

            Sansa worried her lip. “Davos, seriously, you don’t have to.”

            “We’ll find a laundromat soon enough,” Jaime added.

            Davos waved them off. “With what money?” He gave Jaime a pointed look. “Next time you visit me in Birmingham, you can pay me back. Understand?”

            Davos pulled out the key and pushed open his door before either Sansa or Jaime could protest.

            On the street, the colors and people and stores came alive. The scent of buttered popcorn drifted down from the theater on the corner, and cigarette smoke covered the street like a low-hanging cloud. Hand-in-hand, Jaime and Sansa followed Davos into some department store crowded with girls and their boyfriends. A group of stick-thin high schoolers glanced their way and began to whisper, but Davos simply held up his middle finger and led them further into the store.

            “I doubt we’d get so many looks back home,” Sansa muttered as they passed a rack of suede miniskirts.

            Jaime’s lips pressed into a hard line. Sansa was right. Back home, it was normal for men like him to be with girls like Sansa. But here, in the heart of one of the largest cities in the world, the ways of the past had been left in the dust. Jaime opened his mouth to respond, to reassure her that it didn’t matter if people watched and whispered, but a rack of dresses had caught Sansa’s eye up ahead.

            “Hold that thought,” Sansa muttered. She pressed up onto her tiptoes, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then dropped his hand to examine the clothes. Jaime chuckled as Davos noticed they’d stopped.  

            “You really don’t have to do this,” Jaime said when the older man came to stand by his side. “You’ve already done so much.”

            Davos clapped him on the shoulder. “Jaime, if there’s one thing I know about women, it’s how to keep them happy. And seein’ as you’re a little short on cash for the moment, it’s my pleasure to help. Really.”

            They watched Sansa for a moment as she flipped through the sizes of the navy dresses before pulling one out. “I’m going to go find more stuff to try on, if that’s ok,” she called over.

            Davos gave her a thumbs-up, and Jaime smirked. “Do I get to have a peek?”

            Even at a distance, he could see the pink blush on her cheeks. “Maybe.” Sansa turned around, distracted once again by some dresses across the aisle.

            Jaime stood stiffly beside Davos, smiling gently at Sansa as she slowly disappeared behind the racks. When her fading black hair became blocked by a mother dragging her daughter towards some pantsuits, Davos cleared his throat.

            “Jaime,” the man said quietly. “I know it ain’t my place, but…I know what’s goin’ on here.”

            Jaime’s brows pulled together. “I know that.”

            The lines of Davos’s face deepened into a frown. “Yes, but she didn’t mention that you were in love with her.”

            Heat flooded his veins at the other man’s words. He had never dared to speak aloud his own feelings, but now, beneath the florescent of the department store, trapped beneath Davos’s knowing eyes, he accepted that they were true.  

            _I love her. Since the day we put up that tire swing._ Jaime still remembered the rain, wet on her thighs, between their lips, soaking her, drenching him. His mother’s tree had never bloomed so sweetly.

            Jaime looked away from Davos. “What of it?” he asked, a little too harshly.

            “Whatever’s coming ain’t gonna be good, Jaime. That man your father sent, he won’t be the last.”

            “You think I don’t know that?” Jaime snapped, glaring back at the man.  

            Davos stared back, unwavering. “Oh, I know you do. But I think that love you’ve got trapped inside,” he said, glancing at Jaime’s chest, “makes it hard to see the truth. That the two of you apart are easier to keep safe than the two of you together. I know it hurts, Jaime. Goddamn, I know it fucking hurts, but eventually you’re gonna have to let her go.”

            “I don’t—”

            “You _do_ ,” Davos said curtly. “And you know she’d be safer that way.”

            Anger, sorrow, guilt—whatever it was, it picked up Jaime’s feet had sent him storming away. When he found Sansa again, giggling as she twirled outside a dressing room, he painted on a smile and told her she looked beautiful. But when she ducked back behind the curtain, Jaime’s smile fell, and a weight settled in his stomach.  

 

            They parted ways outside another motel, this one squeezed between a bar and an apartment building full of open windows and laughter. Down on the street by Davos’s truck, things weren’t so joyful. Sansa wrapped the older man in a hug, thanking him profusely for his kindness and help and courage. Davos simply huffed and hugged her back, but Jaime saw the mist in the man’s eyes. He’d miss the vet too, and when Davos stuck out a hand, Jaime grasped it and pulled him in for another hug.

            “Thank you,” Jaime whispered. “For everything.”

            Davos stepped away. He gave Jaime one last curt nod and Sansa a worn smile. “See you around,” he said, before climbing back into the truck.

            They watched until it disappeared behind the corner. Engines roared around them, and music drifted through the night air from the bar next door. Sansa took his hand. Her fingers were warm.

            “We’ll see him again,” he said, doubt tainting his voice.

            If Sansa noticed, she didn’t say anything. Jaime led her over to their motel room, nodded when she muttered something about needing a bath. Jaime sat down on the bed and began to refold the clothes in their duffle bag, smiling when his fingers brushed the dark blue dress Davos had bought her today. The color brought him back to Harrenhal, the way he held her in his arms as they danced in front of everyone. That was before he and his family fucked it all up. Before he hurt her in a way he thought beyond repair.

            A sob hit his ears. Jaime dropped the dress and glanced towards the bathroom. Light leaked through the crack at the bottom. “Sansa?” he said, stepping over to it. He pressed his ear against the thin door to hear another muffled cry, the slosh of water. “Are you ok?”

            “I—I’m fine,” he heard her say, her voice thick. Another sob ripped free.

            Without thinking, his turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Behind a curtain of steam, Sansa sat in the tub, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes rimmed with red. Jaime crossed over the powder blue tiles to kneel beside her. His jaw hardened—Jaime had never been good with tears or consoling, but the sight of Sansa so clearly upset had his hand acting of its own accord. He cupped her cheek, not caring that the water slid down his arm to soak his sleeve. “Is this about Davos?” he asked quietly.

            She shook her head. Droplets rained down from her hair. “No—not really,” she sniffed, leaning into his hand. “A little, but…it’s this city, Jaime. What are we doing here? What are we supposed to do next?” She wiped at her tears. “Can…can you hold me?”

            “Of course.”

            Jaime pulled off his clothes, kicking them aside beside hers. Sansa shifted when he approached the tub. He sank into the warm water, sighing as he leaned back up against the wall. Sansa settled in front of him, leaning back against his chest. Her body relaxed into him, soft and supple and wet.

            “Tell me what’s going to happen, Jaime,” she whispered, fingers smoothing along his thigh beneath the water.

            He sighed. “I’m not sure,” he said truthfully, weakly. Davos’s words swirled through his head like the water rippling around them. “But we can’t stay here long.”

            “We can’t stay anywhere.”

            He pressed his lips into her hair. “I know,” he murmured. “I know, sweetheart, and I know this ain’t the life you wanted.”

            Her fingers stilled. “I’m not really sure what I wanted. Not anymore. A family, a husband…the rest doesn’t matter.” She sat up, water dripping from her skin, and turned to face him. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”

            “I never thought it was possible,” he said, eyes searching her face. “But…” Jaime trailed off, his eyes flying towards the bathroom door he’d left open.

            “What’s wrong?”

            Jaime shushed her and rose to his feet. Water slid down his legs, down his back. His eyes narrowed. Somewhere, somewhere _close_ , a siren wailed. And it was getting louder. “Get dressed,” Jaime whispered. He stepped out of the water, breathing in sharply when the cold air hit his skin. Behind him he heard water lapping at the sides of the tub, then he saw Sansa draw a towel from the rack. She handed it to him it. Jaime quickly tied it around his waist.

            The siren cried out. It was growing closer, he was sure about that now. It was probably nothing—a fight at the bar next door, or an emergency somewhere nearby. Dread raced through him anyway, dread at the thought of his father’s man they’d left for dead back in Arizona, at Littlefinger unconscious in his brothel. Jaime had no doubts that both his father and Littlefinger would get the police involved if it suited them.

            “Jaime,” Sansa whispered. “That can’t be for us, it can’t—”

            He turned to her. Her flowy dress was dark where her hair dripped at her shoulders, her face pale as milk. “It’s gonna be ok,” he whispered. “Stay back.”

            A knock sounded at the door, and Jaime’s gaze flew back towards it. He ground his teeth. The person knocked again. Sansa whimpered. Sirens screamed. On the third knock, Jaime stepped closer.

            “What do you want?” he barked, his hand sliding up towards the deadbolt he’d left unlocked. _Just in case._ His fingers closed around the metal when a woman’s voice answered, high and exasperated.

            “Darling, if you don’t want to be wearing handcuffs in a minute, I suggest you tell your man to open the goddamn door.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is it!?  
> Thanks for reading and sticking with me, guys! I always look forward to writing and updating this story.


	17. Darling

           

            Sansa’s lips fell open—she’d recognize that voice anywhere. She’d grown up with it, after all. She ran across the room, pushed Jaime aside, and yanked open the door. Sansa’s gaze swept over her, the feathered brown hair pulled back into a braid, the lips curved into that ever-present smirk. “Margaery,” Sansa breathed out. She moved aside.

            Margaery stepped up to the threshold, her brows rising when she saw Jaime. “I’d love to catch up, darling, but there’s no time. Get dressed,” she said wryly, eyeing him up and down, “then we have to go.”

            “But what…what are you…” Sansa babbled. Behind her, Jaime muttered something under his breath before jogging back to the bathroom.

            “I’ll explain later,” Margaery said. She glanced over her shoulder, to the darkness outside alive with the sound of sirens still growing louder. “But Sansa,” she said, reaching out to take Sansa’s hand. “Are you alright? Truly?” Sansa met her friend’s wide, searching eyes All she could do was give her a nod.

            Jaime stepped up beside her, now dressed with the duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. “We’re ready,” he said, his hand falling onto Sansa’s shoulder. Sansa covered it with her own, holding the heavy warmth to her. Jaime was being more cooperative than she knew he wanted to be, and for that she was grateful.

            Holding tight to Jaime’s hand, Sansa followed Margaery from the motel. Police sirens blared close behind. Heads turned to glance their way before fading back into the shadows lining LA’s streets. They squeezed through an alley and curved around the corner of paint-peeling building, moved towards the blue and red and pink lights winking where the cars grew thicker and the sounds of the city grew into the roar of downtown. Lines snaked outside clubs where women and men in bright colors clutched shared cigarettes and slipped into doorways pulsing with disco and light.

            Margaery turned them down a darker alley. Above them, a man sat with his legs swinging from his rusted fire escape. He whistled and shouted something that had Sansa burning red, but when Jaime’s grip tightened, and Margaery gave the man the finger and a laugh, the fear ceased, and they walked briskly past.

            Sansa kept her eyes on Margaery as they ventured deeper into the alley, watching the swing of her friend’s slender hips and the curls bouncing around her shoulders. _Who is she now?_ The Margaery Sansa had grown up with didn’t belong in this place, dirty and stinking of smoke and sweat. She belonged in a shimmering ballgown, the one Sansa had last seen her in, or sprawled in the sweet-smelling fields of Highgarden.

            _Then I don’t belong here either_ , she thought as they stepped around a dumpster. Sansa wasn’t sure if she belonged anywhere anymore, especially not with Margaery reminding her of what she left behind. The girl that flew from Harrenhal in navy silk and auburn hair foolish dreams had left long ago…

            Around the corner, Margaery stopped at a door shielded from the yellow light pooling beneath the streetlamps. Sansa could just barely make out the sound of music behind it, muffled and faint. “We’re here,” Margaery whispered, her gaze drifting from Sansa to Jaime. “It’ll be safe inside, then we can talk.”

            Beside her, Jaime scoffed. “No where’s safe, girl,” he said bitterly. “You’d be a fool to believe it.”

            “Jaime,” Sansa pleaded. She gave him a look— _don’t_. Back in Westeros, Margaery had never liked Jaime, never liked the idea of him with her. Now, as he glared down at her friend, Sansa realized he felt the same way. She let out a sigh. “Please, just…I trust Margaery. She’d never hurt me.”

            _Like you once did._ The thought rushed in with a pang and a hand jerked away. Seeing Margaery brought up too many memories of before, but if she wasn’t that same girl, then neither was Jaime the man who forced her into that car. Sansa took a steadying breath and made herself meet Jaime’s eyes.

            His jaw hardened. “Fine,” he told Margaery. “Lead the way.”

            Margaery’s lips pursed as she stepped closer to the door and rapped her knuckles twice against the rough, painted metal. For a moment, only the muted music filled the silence, then with a groan, the door was pulled open.

            A girl stood there, maybe a little older than Sansa was, but with skin the color of bronze and thick, dark hair braided over her shoulder. A tight, amber jumpsuit fell into bells around her ankles. She barely glanced at Margaery, her brown eyes falling on Sansa and Jaime behind her. “You’re back soon,” the girl said curtly.

            “You sound delighted,” Margaery answered with a pretty smirk. “Are you going to let us in, or do I have to tell your boss that you left us out in the cold?”

            The girl’s eyes fell over Margaery’s body, taking in her short dress and knee-high white boots. “You don’t look that cold to me,” she said, before swinging the door open wider.

            Margaery pushed past the girl. Sansa had no choice but to follow, with Jaime hovering close behind. A hallway stretched deeper into the building, empty besides this girl at the door. Inside, the music greeted them, disco like she’d heard at the bars they’d passed downtown. When Sansa pressed her palm against the wall, she could almost feel the beat pulsing right through it.

            “He’s just inside,” Margaery said without a look back. She stopped at a simple, wooden door, curled her painted fingers around the handle, then pushed.

            Sansa noticed the velvet couches, the pale shag rug and the gleaming art-deco bar gleaming in dark woods and gold, the crystal chandelier glimmering and the drooping plants sitting in the corner, but she _saw_ only the man rising up to greet him. “Oberyn?” Sansa said, feeling half stupid for not suspecting he’d be here with Margaery, half shocked that he was here at all. By the way Jaime echoed her thoughts, Sansa figured he hadn’t had time to suspect the man’s presence either.

            “Jaime, Sansa,” Oberyn said warmly. He strode forward, shaking first Jaime’s hand, then kissing the back of Sansa’s. When his lips met her skin, warm and soft, she couldn’t help but blush. “I hope my…discretion didn’t worry you too much, nor my security at the door. Elia can me quite…mistrustful of new friends.” He sank back into the couch. Margaery joined him, curling up into his side. “Please, sit. I know you have many questions.” Sansa met Jaime’s eyes, then together they took a seat on the other couch. Sansa clasped her hands in her lap, while Jaime put his arm protectively around her on the back of the sofa. Sansa’s lips parted, a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue. But before she could speak, Jaime leaned forward. She didn’t even need to look over to know that his glare was directed at the man lounging across from them.

            “So you send your…your what? Your girlfriend across the city in the middle of the night to do your errand? And why now? If you’ve managed to find us here, then you must have watched the shit we’ve had to deal with since leaving Virginia.”

            Margaery stiffened at his tone, but the easy smile on Oberyn’s lips simply moved to his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “We heard exactly what happened in Arizona, which is why my wife decided it was time to step in. Against our better judgement, I might add. Stepping between Tywin Lannister and his prizes comes with a high bounty on your heads.”

            Sansa barely heard the rest of his explanation. “ _Wife_?” she said, looking between them. “When did that happen?” Her eyes narrowed on Margaery. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

            A sly smile took over Margaery’s lips, and she looked shyly down to where her hand rested on Oberyn’s thigh. “I wanted to tell you, Sansa. Truly, but I couldn’t risk it until now.” She met Sansa’s eyes. “We went to the court house at the end of July. Maybe a week or so after the debutante ball.”

            “But what about your father? About everyone back home? Does Olenna know?”

            Oberyn held up a hand. “As much as I would love to reminisce about that sweet day, my love,” he said warmly, kissing Margaery’s hand, “we have more pressing issues at hand. Jaime, to answer your question, my wife is quite capable of navigating the streets on her own.”

            Sansa glanced over at Jaime, wondering if he took it as a slight—if Oberyn truly had been watching them, then surely he knew that Jaime preferred to always be by her side. _To protect me_ , Sansa thought, biting her lip. _And besides, I feel safer that way…_

            “Secondly,” Oberyn continued, “I learned of your whereabouts after you started asking questions in Fingers, poking around that town looking for Baelish’s brothel.”

            “That woman in the bar,” Sansa breathed out. The woman had looked just like the girl that greeted them at the door.

            Oberyn nodded. “The mother of many of my employees, as it would happen. I prefer to keep my clubs staffed within closed circles. Ellaria contacted me after meeting you, and for the most part I’ve been able to keep an eye out since you decided to head west.”

            “And Arizona?” Jaime asked, his fingers curling into the plush couch. “You didn’t think to do a little more than _keep and eye out_?”

            Oberyn’s smile faded. “Keep in mind, Lannister, that I help out of love for my wife, for the love _she_ bears Sansa. Tywin’s man was one of many rabid dogs. If they catch a whiff…”

            “The whole pack comes down on you,” Margaery finished quietly. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I wish we could have helped sooner.”

            Sansa nodded—her mouth felt too dry to talk, her head to fuzzy with the memories of Arizona. The red, the sand, the gunshots, the blood. Jaime’s blood. She couldn’t blame Margaery or Oberyn for that morning, and she couldn’t bear to imagine her best friend hunted down like they were. “It’s okay,” she said finally, weakly. She met Margaery’s wavering gaze, Oberyn’s dark one. “We understand.” She found Jaime’s hand and squeezed his fingers.

            “But you said you can help now?” Jaime asked.

            Oberyn nodded. “We all know that the Lannisters won’t stop until you two are found. Tywin and Baelish have too many connections in this country—between their contacts in the police, businesses coast to coast…you can never stop running here.”

            “I knew that when I took Sansa from Harrenhal,” Jaime said sharply.

            “But what if it didn’t have to be that way? I have a private ship leaving port this Sunday. It’s bound for Panama, then across the Atlantic to my villa in the south of Spain. We carry mostly grapes, but my captain won’t mind two passengers.”

             Sansa gazed up at Jaime, trying to puzzle out his reaction. _Spain_ …Spain was a place in books and television, in conversations about villas far away and people who danced and laughed and drank. And somehow, when she pictured it, she imagined it safe. Jaime’s gaze flickered to hers, just for a moment, before he swallowed and looked back to Oberyn.

            “You really think we would be safe there?”

            Oberyn smiled a lazy smile. “Safe enough to settle down for so long you’d get sick of the taste of fine wines.”

            “And we’d visit you, of course!” Margaery exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. “Just think of it, darling. It’d be like home, just less humid.”

            Sansa laughed. “It sound amazing. Thank you. I have no idea how we’d repay you.”

            Oberyn chuckled. He reached out to smooth back Margaery hair, then took hold of her chin to drew her close for a kiss. “My wife’s smile is payment enough.” When their lips parted again, Sansa blushed, and from the corner of her eye she found Jaime watching her. “Now, I assume this is an acceptance of my plan?”

            “Yes.” When Jaime said nothing, she turned to him. “Jaime?”

            He ground his teeth, but his fingers closed around hers gave her hope. “Well, I ain’t about to say no to an offer like that.”

            Sansa beamed and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

            Oberyn grinned, and Margaery clapped her hands in delight. “Wonderful,” he said, rising to his feet. He brushed out the wrinkles of his crisp, white button-down. “Now that the business is taken care of, I have someone who has been waiting on the phone for a very long time.”

            Sansa frowned, but Margaery’s knowing little smile had her belly filling with butterflies. She and Jaime followed Oberyn and Margaery through a door off the lounge into a small office, where a telephone sat on the lacquered wood and gold-inlay desk. Oberyn picked up the receiver and held it out. “For you, Sansa.” Margaery leaned up against the desk, while Jaime sank into the seat behind her.

            With a trembling hand, Sansa raised the phone to her ear. “Hello?” she whispered.

            “Sansa? Sansa!”

            “Arya?” Sansa choked out her sister’s name as tears flooded her eyes. “Arya, is that really you?” Her legs felt too wobbly. Sansa looked around for another chair when Jaime’s hand reached out, guiding her to sit on his lap. Margaery and Oberyn shared a look then filed back out into the lounge.

            “I know,” Arya said, her voice cracked through the telephone. “I can’t believe it either. Godammit, don’t you know how much I’ve fucking missed you?”

            Sansa laughed through her tears. “Mama won’t like you cursin’,” she told her. “And I’ve missed you too. So, so much. All of you. How’s mama and dad and the boys?”

            Her sister fell silent. Somewhere on the other end, a car engine sputtered to life. “They’re not here,” Arya said, the excitement drained from her voice.

            Blood rushed away from Sansa’s cheeks, and only Jaime’s steadying hand on her hip kept her from crumbling at her sister’s words. “They’re not…”

            “No!” Sansa breathed out a sigh of relief. “No, but they’re not here either. They’re back at home, I guess. Probably fast asleep by now.”

            “But where are you?”

            “With Jon. We’re in Alaska.”

            “Alaska?”

            “Yeah, at that commune Jon joined after he left home. Gendry’s here too—well, he just left to go the store, but he’ll be back in a few hours.”

            Sansa worried her lip. “Arya, you can’t be in Alaska. You have school, and…”

            Arya sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I’m happy here. We’re happy here. The food’s pretty shitty, but the work is good, and the mountains and the night sky…God, Sansa, you would love it here. There ain’t nothin’ like it. And besides, it wasn’t safe for me back home. In a few years, the Lannisters would be after me just like they came after you.”

            Sansa twisted the telephone cord around her fingers. “Do mama and dad know? About me and…”

            “It wasn’t hard to guess after you both disappeared the same night. They ain’t too happy about it, but I think they understand. We all do.”

            Sansa let a long breath escape her lips. At least her parents didn’t hate her for leaving with Jaime. “I want to hear all about that weirdo commune of yours. Are you one of those hippies now?”

            Arya laughed. “Jon is for sure. But hey, Sansa, do you think I could speak to Jaime for a bit?”

            She frowned and turned to look down at him. “Why?”

            “To make sure he’s worth my goody-two-shoes of a sister, that’s why.”

            “I guess so.” Sansa pressed the receiver closer to her ear. “I love you, you know that?”

            “I love you too.” The words cracked at the end. Sansa blinked away a few loose tears and handed the receiver off.  

            The door the lounge opened. Margaery stood in the dim light, a smile on her face. Sansa untangled herself from Jaime’s lap, shaking her head at the idea of whatever the hell her sister would want to talk to Jaime about. “Thank you,” she said when she reached her. “I know this must have been your idea.”

            “Well, Oberyn figured it was still too dangerous to call home, but no one even knows she’s up at that commune. She’ll be safe there too,” Margaery said, taking Sansa’s hand. “I promise,” she said with a gentle squeeze. “Now come sit with me. I am dying to hear _everything_ about your cross-country adventure.”

            They returned to the velvet couches. Oberyn had disappeared, but Sansa found herself glad for it. With just the two of them, the conversation flowed as freely as the Blackwater back home. After telling Margaery all about her trip—from her first kiss on the balcony of Harrenhal, to their first time in the motel room in Fingers—Margaery caught her up on everything that went on in Westeros. Apparently the town had turned to chaos after Sansa and Jaime’s disappearance, but the final rumor that settled above the rest was that she was pregnant with his baby, and that Tywin Lannister was hellbent on finding his heir. Sansa had blushed when Margaery explained the rumor, half-expecting to hear that Margaery had started it herself. Afterwards, Margaery told her of her secret betrothal to Oberyn. Mace Tyrell had been in a fit worrying that Sansa’s disappearance would  mess with his business connections, and he’d been too distracted to even entertain the idea of Margaery’s engagement to Oberyn. In the end, they’d slipped off to the courthouse one day and never went back.

            “So,” Margaery teased, leaning her head in her hand. “Enough about me. You’ve told me what you’ve _done_ with that handsome man back there,” she said, nodding towards the office, “but what do you feel?”

            Sansa’s cheeks flushed. “I love him,” Sansa whispered, rushed and soft, but there. The words were there. Margaery gasped, and Sansa only blushed harder. “I love Jaime, but I haven’t told him yet.”

            “Well why not, darling? What are you waiting for?”

            Sansa squirmed and clasped her fingers together on her lap. “What if he doesn’t feel the same way?”

            Margaery threw back her head with an exasperated sigh. “Sansa. Darling.” She looked her in the eye. “Jaime Lannister went across the country for you. He left everything he has ever known behind. For _you_. Sansa, if that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.”

            Just as Sasna broke away from her friend’s insistent stare, the office door opened, and Jaime came striding back towards them. “How was my sister?” Sansa asked when he leaned down to kiss her. Sansa hoped her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

            “Delightful, as always,” Jaime joked. He kissed her again, deeper, his lips parting easily for her own.

            “Ugh, get a room,” Margaery laughed. “Which, by the way, will be in one of Oberyn’s hotels until the ship leaves.”

            Sansa reluctantly tilted her head down and raised an eyebrow at Margaery. “What’s wrong with our old room?”

            Margaery wrinkled her nose. “It reeked of stale cigarettes, and I hardly even stepped inside. Who knows what was crawling under those sheets.”

            Sansa smiled back up at Jaime. “I suppose we could do with an upgrade.”

            Jaime smirked. “I suppose so. But I need to find Oberyn first. Is he still here?” he asked, turning to Margaery.

            “Just down the hall in the staff lounge.”

            Sansa frowned. “Why do you need Oberyn?”

            “Just some arrangements for the trip on Sunday,” he told her, his fingers cupping her cheek. “I won’t be long.” He kissed her again, just a quick peck on the lips, before heading off towards the hallway they’d come in through. As soon as he disappeared around the doorway, Margaery turned back to face Sansa.

            “Sansa, how can you _possibly_ keep your love a secret any longer! If I had a man that looked like that, I’d tell him I loved him the second we met.”

            “Funny, I don’t remember you being to eager back home.”

            Margaery let our a dramatic sigh. “If I admit I was wrong about Jaime, will you be happy?”

            Sansa smiled. “I’m already happy.”

            Margaery smiled back, her eyes beginning to shine brighter. She sniffed and dragged the heel of her hand across her cheek. “I’m going to miss you, darling.”

            Sansa pushed up from her couch to sit by Margaery’s side. She wrapped Margaery in her arms, holding her tight to her chest. Margaery’s warmth was a different. Softer and sweeter than Jaime, more familiar too. Like the memory of the little brown-haired girl streaking barefoot in the gardens, and the friend who stroked her back when she cried, and the woman who showed her it was okay to love who you love.

            “I’m going to miss you too,” Sansa whispered into her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting towards the end now...just two or three chapters left! Thank you so much for reading, and I'd love to hear your thoughts about the ending.


	18. Decisions

           

            The hotel Oberyn had sent them to was far nicer than anywhere they’d stayed since fleeing Harrenhal. White feather-stuffed pillows and slippery, silk sheets covered the huge bed, but even when Sansa closed her eyes and let her body ease back into the cloud of luxury, sleep would not come.

            “Jaime,” Sansa murmured, rolling over to face him. Jaime lay beside her, bare-chested, his head cradled beneath his arm.

            He stirred, eyes opening, mouth curving to frown at her. “What’s wrong?”

            Sansa fingered the pale sheets, watching the way the fabric dipped beneath her touch. “I can’t sleep.”

            “Me neither,” he answered softly. She wondered if he too was thinking about Oberyn’s plan to send them across the sea, that it was almost too good to be true. Jaime reached over and brushed a stray lock from her cheek. “I saw a pool outside, if you want to go for a swim.”

            “You won’t attack me this time?” Sansa teased, remembering the lake they’d raced into in Alabama, remembering the way Jaime caught her and spun her around.

            He chuckled. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

            They left the room as they were, Jaime in his boxers, Sansa only in her skimpy tank-top and panties. Jaime led her by the hand down to the ground floor of the sleeping hotel where a large, crystal-clear pool shimmered beneath the moonlight. Their bare footsteps padded across the marble tiling until they reached the rough concrete surrounding the pool.

            “Is it cold?” she asked as Jaime lowered his foot to the water’s glistening surface.

            “A bit.” He raised his head and gave her a smirk. “But I can keep you warm, sweetheart.”

            Sansa blushed and rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll just stick my legs in for n—”

            The words vanished as Jaime grabbed her around the waist and jumped, sending them both crashing into the pool. The cold hit her, soaking her completely, sending fingers of chill shivering up her spine. “Jaime!” she gasped as her head broke through the surface. Sheets of water ran down her face until she managed to shove back her hair. A few feet away, Jaime grinned. Her scowl deepened. “What was that for?” she demanded.

            Jaime swam towards her, smirking. “I couldn’t wait any longer to see you like that.”

            “Like what?”

            Jaime answered by dropping his gaze down to where the white tank clung to her skin, now see-through around the swell of her breasts. He moved towards her, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close, pressing her against his chest. Sansa sighed and pressed her cheek into his neck. Goosebumps pricked her arms. She nuzzled closer into his warmth. “My mama would hate you,” she whispered into his skin. “Throwing her daughter in a pool just to see her shirt soaked through.”

            He chuckled, his chest rumbling against her. “Does that mean the daughter would hate me too?” He turned them in lazy circles. Pale light from the moon, the stars, the little lights dotting the grounds, flickered against the water’s gently lapping surface, making the blue dance in white ripples.

            “No,” Sansa told him, tightening her arms where they draped around Jaime’s neck. “She likes it,” Sansa breathed out, her legs coming up to encircle his waist. “She likes the way you make her feel wanted.” Hard flecks began to patter against her head, her arms, her shoulders. The water beyond them churned with white life. _Rain_ , she thought, clinging to Jaime as the rain slipped between them. _Like the day we hung that tire swing beneath your mama’s tree._ Sansa buried her lips against Jaime’s neck. “She likes the way you make her feel loved,” Sansa whispered. Her heart pounded and the rain thudded, like drums.

            Jaime stilled. His fingers slipped into her hair, and he gently guided her head back to look at him. “Sansa…”

            She kissed away whatever he was about to say. _It’s my turn now._ Margaery was right—she had to tell him the truth. She _wanted_ to tell him the truth. “Jaime,” she said, searching his wide eyes that gleamed green and bright. “Jaime, I love you.” She kissed him then, wet and soft. His mouth opened for hers as his hands slid down to hold her waist. “I love you,” she murmured into his lips.

            When she pulled away, rain slid down his cheeks. It beat down on her skin, his, the water and the concrete and the ocean miles and miles away that would take them somewhere safe and warm. But the rain could not drown out Jaime’s silence.

            _He doesn’t feel the same way._ Waves of embarrassment and hurt washed over her, pushing aside the chill of the rain for a heat that burned through her veins. _He doesn’t…God, how could I be so stupid?_ Her arms and legs fell away from him. _He can’t even admit that he doesn’t love me back._

            “Sansa, wait,” he said, reaching for her.

            Sansa turned as his fingers brushed her shoulder. She stared out into the wall of the hotel, watching the dark windows as they sat there, unmoving, untouched. Jaime tried again, but she jerked away. “Leave me alone,” she spat, pushing through the water for the silver ladder leading out. She heard Jaime splashing behind her, but she ignored it as she climbed. Her feet met the concrete and the air seemed to squeeze down, suddenly freezing without the warm safety of the pool and Jaime’s arms. Out here, the rain was harder, stinging her skin and her eyes.

            Strong fingers closed around her wrist, spinning her back around before she could protest. “Sansa, please. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” His solemn eyes searched her face. “I care about you. More than you can ever know.” His bare, slick chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the thunder of the rain. Dark, soaked boxers clung to the outline of his thighs, the outline of his cock which had made her feel so good the few times they’d slept together. Now the sight of it and him and all his beauty made her feel sick. Used.

            She ripped free from his grasp and ran for the door. She ran all the way up to their third floor room and fell into the bed. Her hair and shirt soaked the silk, but she didn’t bother stripping or drying off. Tears budded in her eyes, bright and stinging, but she refused to let them fall.

            The door creaked open. She didn’t have to look over to know it was Jaime coming through, locking the door behind him with a _click_ , padding over to the bed. The mattress dipped down as he climbed in beside her.

            “Sansa. Baby, I’m sorry.”

            She let her head fall to the side, her cheek pressed into the pillow. “Okay,” she muttered. _Let him grapple with that_ , she thought bitterly. _Let him think I don’t give a shit that he…that he can’t even say he loves me._

            A soft touch found her cheek, his thumb brushing over her damp skin, sliding against the corner of her lips. She ignored it, willing her body not to melt beneath his touch. His fingers slid down her jaw, ghosting over her neck, sliding all the way to the hem of her shirt.

            “I’m sorry,” Jaime whispered again. He leaned over her, kissing her cheek as his hand slipped beneath her tank-top. “Let me make you feel good.” His hand pressed against her belly, warm and heavy, comforting in a way that made her eyes squeeze shut in a confusing mix of pleasure and pain. Jaime’s fingers slid carefully up to cup her breast. When his thumb brushed her nipple, a spark of pleasure bloomed between her legs.

            “Jaime,” she whimpered. He ignored her, his lips traveling over to capture her own, his other hand gliding beneath her panties. His finger found the spot that sent her body tingling. He began to work her with his fingers, his lips, coaxing out a moan. Sansa’s spine arched up into him as she gasped his name into his mouth. Jaime shifted slightly, his hips lowering to grind against her, the hardness of his cock pressing into her thigh.

            “I’m sorry,” he breathed out, his breath hot against her lips. “I’m sorry.” His hand left her breast, sliding up to find a home around the base of her throat, gentle but urgent. The hand at her core disappeared to hold her hip steady against the mattress. Heat and skin slid together. His cock pressed against her belly now, his lips pressed against her lips, his fingers dug into her skin with a need that echoed in her own body. His hand left her hip, and Sansa glanced down through her lashes to see Jaime reaching to pull down his boxers.

            A sick, heavy weight settled in her belly. _This is what he cares about. My body. Not me._ She stiffened, but if Jaime noticed, he made no move to stop.

            _Why would he care about anything else?_

            A part of her whispered that her worries were lies, that all their time together meant something deeper. But his weight and his cock and his hand around her throat felt too good when her mind felt so bad. Sansa wiggled her arm between them and pushed. “Jaime, stop,” she panted. She pushed harder, and Jaime sat back to straddle her legs. “This isn’t what I want.” _I want to hear that you love me. That you love me like I love you._

Jaime’s jaw hardened. Something shone in his eyes, guilt or pain or maybe nothing but the lust he felt for her body. His lips parted, and for a breathless moment, Sansa hoped he’d say the words that would close the distance between them. But he didn’t. Jaime moved off of her to lay on the other side of the bed, his back towards her, muscles rippling in the moonlight shafting in from the window.

 

* * *

 

 

**Friday August 5, 1977**

Jaime woke to a clear day and his girl beside him, but neither could lift the sour taste from his mouth. Guilt boiled in his stomach at the events of last night, at the way he responded after Sansa said those three little words.

            _I love you._

            He loved her. He loved her, damnit. But he could not say it, not when he was about to do something that would crumble that love she had to dust.

            After a quick shower and dressing in one of his well-used pairs of jeans and a t-shirt, Jaime pressed a kiss into Sansa’s forehead. “I’ll be back soon with breakfast,” he said quietly. She stirred, but her eyes didn’t open. Likely she was ignoring him.

            _Maybe it’s better that way_ , Jaime mused as he made his way out of the hotel lobby. The concierge nodded at him from behind a white stone desk. _It’ll be easier if she hates me._

            Outside, the day had already come to life in the busy city. Cars raced down the roads, sputtering out smoke and blasting top 40 songs from their open windows. Jaime pushed through the crowds as he walked down the gum-speckled sidewalks, ignoring the calls of busty women in doorways and vendors hunched over their sizzling food carts.

            The alley was deserted when he finally reached it, but when Jaime knocked on the metal door, the same girl from the previous night appeared in the crack with narrowed, dark eyes. “Oh. It’s you,” she said, smirking. “The disco’s not open yet. Come back later.”

            She started to close the door when Jaime stuck in the toe of his boot. “I’m here to see Oberyn.”

            “That so?”

            Jaime took hold of the door, wrenching it open a few more inches. “Don’t play with me, girl. I ain’t in the mood for games.”

            The girl scowled, but her face slipped back into a pretty mask when a voice called out from behind her. “Let Mr. Lannister in,” Oberyn called out.

            Jaime smirked as the girl held open the door, but his smile dropped when he found Oberyn in the little lounge room they’d met in last night. “You might consider hiring someone more threatening,” Jaime said as he eased down onto the couch across from Oberyn. Today, the man wore a matching striped suit of browns and golds, but even with the extravagance of his outfit choice, Jaime had to admit the man looked sharp.

            “If I hired someone more threatening, I might scare all the patrons away. But you’re not here to give me business advice, are you, Lannister?”

            Jaime settled back against the couch and met the man’s warm, dark eyes. “Do you have it?”

            Oberyn reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. Jaime reached for it, but Oberyn held it up, his eyes teasing. “These documents were easy to get, Jaime, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be easy to give.”

            “You think I don’t know that?” Jaime snapped.

            “I think that when you asked for my help last night, while our girls were in here chatting, you didn’t consider the consequences of my help.”

            Jaime pressed his lips together. “I _want_ Sansa safe and happy. A life by my side guarantees her neither of those things.”

            Oberyn set the envelope down and folded his hands in his lap. “If you send Sansa away, she will never love you again.” His eyes roamed over Jaime’s face. “And the girl does love you. Even if Margaery didn’t tell me, I knew. I could see it in her pretty face. Yours too.”

            Guilt seized his stomach. Jaime shifted, crossing his legs, trying not to squirm. “There ain’t gonna be a girl left to love me if she’s dead,” he whispered, looking furiously away. “I’d rather her hate me then know I’m the reason she’s dead. Maybe it won’t happen for a month or a year or ten, but if we’re together, my father will find us. After all this shit, Tywin would kill her just to make me watch.”

            With a hard look and sad eyes, Oberyn handed Jaime the envelope. “It’s all there,” the man said quietly. “You’ll need to wait until Sunday to give them to her, when I take you both down to the waterfront. Otherwise the girl will convince you to let her go with you to Spain.”

            Oberyn left without another word, leaving Jaime to open the envelope in thick silence. Jaime slid his finger beneath the seal, wincing when the paper tore. When he reached inside and pulled the documents out, his breath caught in his throat, and the weight in his stomach sank lower.

            Jaime gazed down at the passport for Alayne Stone, at the airplane ticket peaking out from within. He pulled it out. His eyes fell on the neat typeface printed along the top.

            _One-way ticket to Anchorage, Alaska._

Sansa was laying on her stomach on the bed, dressed in a sundress and flipping through the television channels when Jaime slipped back inside their room. The screen flickered off when he closed the door behind him.

            “I have breakfast,” he said softly, turning and putting the paper bag down on the dresser. He’d gone to the McDonalds after his meeting with Oberyn, and the smell of flapjacks and coffee now wafted through the room.

            “Jaime?” He stared down at the bag, fidgeting with the paper, waiting for her to say something, anything. “Jaime, I don’t want to fight. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We have the rest of our lives, right? If you’re not ready…”

            A relieved, guilty sigh escaped his lips as Jaime turned back towards her. He crossed the room and sat down beside her. “If that’s what you want,” he said gently.

            She pushed up onto her knees and reached for his jaw, cupping his cheek. “We have until Sunday until the boat leaves. I want to spend that time with you, not fighting or arguing or being stupid and sad.”

            “Is that what I am? Stupid and sad?”

            She pressed a delicate kiss into the spot above her fingers. “Yep.” She drew him in for another kiss, and Jaime relented to her mouth despite the pain twisting his organs, the burn of the envelope pushed deep into his pocket.

            Maybe it was selfish and cruel, but he wanted these last good days with her before he gave her the ticket and sent her away to the people she belonged with. _Arya and Jon will take better care of her than I ever could_ , he thought as Sansa deepened their kiss and pushed Jaime back into the mattress. _They’ll keep her safe._ On the phone last night, it had been Arya who proposed that Sansa join her and that brother in the commune. And Jaime had agreed, even though it hurt.

            Sansa reached for his shirt as he reached for her dress. Together, they stripped each other until Sansa lay bare before him, and he before her. In the warm morning light, and in the pain of a goodbye looming over his head, Jaime nudged apart her thighs and watched her lips gasp around his name.

            “ _Jaime.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a while, but now my job is done for the summer so the final chapter should come soon! And ahh I know this is a sad one but you know I can't let it be smooth sailing to the end...
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	19. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Required listening before reading this chapter -- Supertramps's "Downstream." Not really, but really. Give it a listen and you'll understand why I just had to write a love story between Sansa Stark and Jaime Lannister that ends on a Sunday at sea in 1977...

            Sansa rolled over onto her side to watch Jaime walk to the bathroom, still naked, still gleaming with the sweat of their lovemaking.

            _And that’s what it is, isn’t it?_ She glanced down at the white stickiness on her belly, then back to Jaime in the open bathroom doorway. Water rushed as he wet a towel. _Maybe this is how he shows his love._ The faucet shut off, and Sansa sighed and settled onto her back. _Or maybe I’m just a delusional little girl._ She wanted to ask Jaime why he never said he loved her back, wanted nothing more than to coax those three words out of him.

            “Here,” Jaime said, holding out the wet towel and breaking off her dark thoughts.

            Sansa raised a brow. “I didn’t make that mess.”

            Jaime chuckled and sat down beside her before gently washing her clean. The soft towel swiped over her belly, a rhythmic caress that put a smile on her face. “What are you thinking about?” he murmured, setting the towel aside. His hand replaced it, his palm flat against the soft planes of her stomach.

            Sansa blushed. “Just how easy this all is now. You,” she said, sitting up to look into his eyes. “And me.” His hand slipped down to take her own, their fingers intertwined and resting on his bare thigh. “Do you remember the day we met?”

            Jaime’s eyes danced, mischief made gold in the flecks dotting his emerald irises. “I remember you and Margaery interrupting my cigarette.”

            She laughed. “At least you don’t smoke anymore.”

            “No,” he agreed softly, like the realization just hit him. “I don’t.” His gaze dropped down to their hands. “You already know why I kept looking for a chance to talk to you,” he said quietly.

            Sansa stiffened. She still hated thinking about that time when Jaime walked that thin line between aggressor and lover.

            Jaime took a breath and continued on. “But why did you come over to talk to me?”

            Sansa rubbed her thumb across the back of Jaime’s hand, focusing on the movement instead of meeting Jaime’s eyes. She tried to remember that hot, sticky summer day, the honeysuckle and the gravel and the golden man across the street that changed everything. “Obviously I thought you were handsome,” she told him. “And Margaery wanted to talk to you too. But it was more than that. I saw you sittin’ there, all Mr. Mysterious, and I thought that maybe, maybe this is my chance to be someone different. That town wanted me to shut my pretty mouth and play along like my mother did, like her mother did, like they all do.” Sansa dragged her gaze away from their hands and met his eyes. “I didn’t want that life, Jaime. And you gave me a new one.”

            The lines around his eyes crinkled with a tender smile. “I didn’t give it you, sweetheart. Hell, I only made things worse.” He tangled his free hand in her hair, steady enough to hold her still, gentle enough to send tingles racing down her spine. “You made this new life—whatever it is—for yourself. Do you hear me? _You_ did this, Sansa. You never needed me.”

            Sansa closed the gap between them and pressed a hard kiss into his mouth. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she breathed out, breaking away from his lips only to drag her kiss across the scratchy skin of his jaw, down the pulsing slope of his throat. Jaime groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair. “Without you, I’d never know what this is like,” she murmured, peppering kisses down the line of his shoulder. Jaime released her hair. His hands captured her waist, pulling her over to straddle his legs where they draped over the edge of the bed. His cock, already coaxed somewhat back to life, pressed against her stomach.

            “You would have…found someone eventually,” he choked out as she sucked his earlobe into her mouth.

            She moved back over to his lips. “Who? Joffrey? Some old man my father forced me to dance with at the debutante ball?” Her lips parted, and Jaime groaned, kissing her fully, hungrily. Soon, she was sure, Jaime would be flipping her over and taking control of their lovemaking like he always did, but for now Sansa enjoyed the way her body settled on top of his. She threaded her fingers through his golden locks and guided his mouth lower towards her own neck, giggling breathlessly as he sucked bruises into the delicate skin. “I want _you_ , Jaime,” she panted. “Since the day you offered me a smoke.”

            Before the words had even spilled fully from her lips, Jaime was hoisting her up. Shrieking, Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist, but it was already too late. With a smirk, Jaime spun them around and deposited her back onto the mattress. He climbed on top of her, his weight a welcome one, his mouth even more so when he leaned down to kiss one rosy nipple, then the other. “You shouldn’t say things like that, baby,” he murmured, capturing her wrists and pinning them together above her head. A wash of pleasure came over her at the sudden position.

            “Yeah? Why not?” she teased, arching up into him as his mouth traveled lower, as his fingers clutched her wrists and held her still from wiggling away.  

            “Because it makes it too damn hard.”

            _Makes what too hard?_ she wondered, before his head buried between her legs whisked the thought far, far away.

 

**Saturday August 6, 1977**

            Night had fallen over the city, bringing with it sounds that made home seem even further away. Sansa had opened their hotel window to let in the fresh air, and the life streaming from Oberyn’s club a few blocks away seemed to trickle through along with the pleasant chill. Or maybe the pulsing of disco was from another club entirely. Sansa had never been to a big city before, and the thought of going dancing—real dancing—was an enticing one. Maybe Jaime would want to go, if they even had discos in Spain…

            Sansa turned away from the window. Jaime knelt by the dresser as he repacked their things into their well-used leather duffle bag. He raised a wrinkled dress shirt to his nose, sniffed, then tossed it aside, grimacing. “We’ll have to get you new clothes in Spain,” she said, grinning.

            “Sure,” he answered, not looking up. Jaime reached back into the bag. His arm stilled, then a frown pulled at his mouth.

            “What is it?” she asked, coming over to join him on the floor.

            Jaime withdrew his arm, and in his hand sat a cardboard box of hair dye. She took it and raised it up for closer inspection. The model on the front smiled prettily up at her amidst a headful of ruby-red hair. The color was at least a few shades off from her own. _Why would he…_ Sansa put her fingers to her lips and glanced up at him. “Jaime,” she began, stifling her laughter. “Are you trying to tell me something?” She fingered her own locks, now a muddy color somewhere between black and orange.

            He gave her a sheepish look and took the box from her hand. “I just thought that someday you’d want to go back to it. You know…sooner than waiting for it to grow in.” He tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “And I can’t say I wouldn’t mind seein’ it red again.”

            “If I recall, you’re the one who made me dye it in the first place.”

            “And you looked beautiful in black,” he said, leaning over to kiss her lightly on the lips. “But I can’t say I don’t miss the girl that used to sit on that porch of hers, showin’ off all that pretty red hair in the sun.” He kissed her cheek, then the tip of her nose. Sansa giggled and drew back. “I remember seein’ that red hair in your bedroom window once.” Jaime pretended to think for a moment, his finger tapping his mouth. “And if _I_ recall, she was watchin’ me in quite a state of undress.”

            Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she squirmed beneath Jaime’s smirk. “You could have looked away.”

            “Did you want me to?”

            “No.” She kissed him, slowly, surely, remembering the sheer, wanton bravery she’d had back then. “I can’t dye my hair with that box,” she told him, kissing his face like he’d kissed hers. “I don’t think it works like that. But someday,” she whispered, brushing her lips against the hollow of his throat, “when it’s beautiful and sunny, and we’re living in a villa by the sea,” she said him, dragging her lips over the fabric of his t-shirt, kissing the spot where his heart thudded the loudest, “you’ll see me again with that red hair you like so much.”

            Jaime drew her towards him, but when Sansa reached down to palm his crotch, he gently drew her hand away. “We need to sleep tonight, sweetheart,” he murmured, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

            Sansa nodded, smiling. He was right—it was already late, and they would have plenty of time to themselves on the ship. And though she couldn’t see his eyes, or his face, she imagined he was smiling too at the thought. “Okay,” she muttered, closing her eyes as his hand slid up to cup the back of her head. “Okay.”

            After tossing the hair dye in the trash can and getting ready for bed, Sansa pulled back the sheets and laid down beside Jaime. His back was turned to her, but even when she pressed little kisses into the taut muscles, he made no move to roll towards her. Usually when they shared a bed, Sansa would tuck herself up against his chest, safe and warm, wrapped in his arms and legs. She tried again, whispering his name, peeking over his shoulder. But Jaime’s eyes were closed. Sansa frowned and dragged the sheets up to her chin instead.

            She fell asleep shivering beneath the silk.

 

* * *

 

**Sunday August 7, 1977**

Beyond the car window, the sea glimmered a dark, greenish gray. Maybe it was just the tint of Oberyn’s obnoxiously elegant Cadillac. Maybe it was the clouds, black and stringy over the distant horizon. A storm would blow in to Los Angeles today.

            Or so Jaime thought. He didn’t know a damn thing about the damn weather.

            “Jaime.” Sansa reached across the backseat to take his hand. In front of them, Margaery and Oberyn chattered on about some new furniture store that had popped up in Beverly Hills. “Are you okay?”

            He tried to give her a reassuring smile. “It’s gonna storm soon.”

            She tilted her head, giving him a teasing, knowing look that normally would have sent dirty thoughts straight to his brain. Today it only made the knots in his stomach worse. “So what? You worried the boat’s gonna sink? I think some big cargo ship can manage on rough waters. Isn’t that right, Oberyn?”

            “Of course,” he answered easily. Oberyn glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Jaime jerked his gaze away.

            They rode in silence for the rest of the trip down to the waterfront. Jaime kept glancing away from the shipping docks to Sansa, where she watched the world fly by with a calm face. _She’s better off like this_ , Jaime told himself when she looked his way. _Better off with a family that knows how to love her, how to keep her safe._

            When the car finally pulled to a stop, Jaime let himself out, then moved around to pull open Sansa’s door. Oberyn did the same for his own girl. Squinting into the watery sunlight, Jaime peered up at the ship looming in front of them. Down on the ground, it was suddenly much bigger than he’d realized from a distance—a long, silver, ship with the words _The Blushing Rose_ painted in a fresh coat of green along the hull.

            “I decided to give her a new name when I met my bride,” Oberyn told them with a wink.

            Margaery laughed and pushed back her windswept hair. “I hardly think I was a blushing bride.”

            “No,” he agreed, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling the girl to his chest. “Only in bed.”

            Sansa met Jaime’s eye and bit her lip. “We’re not that bad, are we?” she asked, curling into his side. Jaime put his arm around her narrow shoulders. “Not yet, anyway.”

            After Oberyn and Margaery had pulled away from quite a long kiss, they began to lead Jaime and Sansa closer to the ship where the crew was boarding up a steep ramp. Margaery and Sansa began to chat excitedly about plans for future visits in Europe when Oberyn’s firm hand closed around his arm. “Margaery doesn’t know about your plan,” he whispered, his dark eyes searching Jaime’s face. “And she won’t be happy once she finds out. Better that we say our goodbyes here, then we’ll wait for Sansa in the car.”

            Jaime nodded. A thickness coated his throat, making it hard to swallow. “I’ll make it quick,” he managed to choke out.

            Oberyn gave him a sharp nod in return then approached the girls. After a moment, Sansa began tearing up as she wrapped Margaery in a hug. The two girls whispered and clutched each other, desperate as lovers.

            Jaime turned away.

            A minute later, Margaery gave Jaime a quick, curt peck on the cheek with a reminder to be good to her best friend. Oberyn, for his credit, simply shook his hand. They watched the couple go, watched them disappear behind a shipping container where they’d left the car.

            Footsteps approached him, soft and shuffling against the wooden dock. Sansa wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek into his shoulder blade. “I’m going to miss this city, I think,” Sansa said.

            Jaime stiffened. A cool breeze washed through the dock, fluttering his hair, making his eyes sting. His lips parted. It tasted like salt. “Sansa…” he whispered, turning in her arms. She clung to him still, smiling up at him like the sky wasn’t gray and the sea wasn’t gray and he wasn’t about to say goodbye for good. “Sansa,” he tried again. This time a flicker of confusion crossed her pretty features. Her arms slipped away, and Jaime was free to reach into his back pocket. The envelope crinkled when he pulled it out. Jaime smoothed out the wrinkles from where he’d folded it so many times while Sansa slept these past two days.

            “What is that?” she asked, her voice wavering was he held it out. She did not take it until Jaime forced it into her hand.

            “You’re going to live with your sister and brother,” he whispered as she pulled the passport and ticket from the envelope. “Up in Alaska, where it’s safe and my father won’t find you.” He ran a trembling hand over his jaw. “It was Arya’s idea, and I agreed. We spoke on the phone at Oberyn’s club…”

            Sansa gazed at the ticket, her eyes scanning the words, shifting left to right, left to right as she read and re-read the ticket. “No,” she said, her voice strangely calm. But when her eyes lifted back up, and she shoved the documents into his chest, he saw that they were rimmed in red. “No. I’m going with you. To Spain. We’re going together. To Spain.”

            His fist closed around the documents before he shoved them back into his pocket. “Davos had it right, sweetheart. If we’re together, I’ll only hurt you. I ain’t good for you, Sansa. I never was.”

            Sansa’s brows knotted together. “Davos?” she gaped up at him, blinking furiously. “Davos has nothing to…Jaime,” she pleaded, stepping closer. “I don’t _care_ about your father. Or what my sister or Davos or _anyone_ thinks!” She grabbed his hand, pulling his knuckles to her mouth, pressing her chapped lips into his skin. “This is what I care about, Jaime. You. I love you, Jaime. And I know you won’t say it, but you feel the same way. I know you do. I know you love me, Jaime.” Tears slid against his skin.

            “Love…” Jaime tore his hand from her grasp. “Loving you is the worst thing I’ve ever done.” The wind picked up his words and scattered them in the salty air.

 

* * *

 

            _He loves me. He loves me._ But the words that followed sent her stumbling back. “Why?” Sansa whispered. Tears slid down her open lips, burning her tongue, tasting sour and bitter and cold. It was cold now. She glanced behind Jaime at the sky. The storm sat heavily overhead now, threatening to burst.  

            “Because it only ends one way, damnit. And we both know that end’s gonna catch up before we’re ready.” 

            _He thinks I’m already as good as dead._ Sansa bit her lip and shook her head. Muddy black locks whipped across her face, sticking to the tracks her tears had left behind. “No,” she said, lifting her voice up above the wind. “No, that’s not…Jaime, I made a choice to love you.” She stepped up to him and placed her hand against his chest. His heart pounded against her palm. “I love you,” she told him, looking up through her wet lashes. “I love you, Jaime, and I love you no matter what that means, no matter how soon we’re forced to say goodbye. But until that end comes, I’m not leaving you.”

            His fingers wrapped around her wrist, but when he began to pull her away, she curled her fingers into his shirt and held tight. “Sansa.” His voice cracked around her name. “I can’t take that risk with you. If you die because I was selfish…” His other hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. “I can’t let you become a memory. I can’t. I can’t love a memory of you.”

            “How do you think I’d feel?” she said, leaning into his touch. “What if I want to be selfish for once in my life! You’re all I have to prove any of this was real. If you’re gone, none of it matters. Don’t you get it?” She rose up onto her tiptoes. Her lips hovered above Jaime’s. “I would rather die by your side, Jaime, then forget how I feel about you.” She kissed him, wet, open, trembling. “How you feel about me.” She held his face, lowering his forehead to hers. His breath skimmed her lips, hot and quick, edged with salt. “How when I kiss you, I feel like the girl I always wanted to be.” She pulled away and looked into Jaime Lannister’s eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

            Jaime’s elbows pressed into the cold metal railing. Beyond the balcony, the sea stretched on forever. He’d never seen it before, the sea. Not like this. Not like it was the end of the world and he was about to fall in.

            The sky ahead loomed above him, watery shades of grey with pale yellow peeking through. Wind scraped Jaime’s cheeks. He touched his skin, pressing at the rawness he knew would hurt like a bitch in an hour. With a heavy sigh, Jaime drew his fingers away and turned back towards the little cabin. He stripped off his clothes in the balcony doorway, then slunk into bed in nothing but his boxers. The sheets felt good—worn and old and soft. They reminded him of his mother’s sheets, the ones she refused to throw out even when their father told her to. Jaime reached beneath them, his fingers settling on Sansa’s side.

            She stirred and rolled over to face him. Sleep crusted her eyes, but Jaime knew the tears he’d caused were there too. Guilt sank low in his belly as she brushed her fingers across his cheek. “I’m sorry for waking you,” he murmured, his eyes closing to her touch.

            “It was just a nap.”

            “Still.” He shifted closer into the warmth radiating from her little body, spreading out across the sheets like a flood. “I’m sorry.”

            They laid like that for a while. Hours, maybe. When Jaime opened his eyes again, the sky outside the balcony was hazy with the colors of a summer night. Sansa stood there, a blue silhouette. She stood naked, arms stretched above her head, spine curved outwards towards the sky. Jaime thought about calling to her. He thought about standing behind her and wrapping her in his arms. He thought about kissing every inch of this woman who chose him for some reason he’d never truly understand.

            “I love you, Jaime” Sansa said, her voice breaking through the windswept silence that filled the little room. She turned from the glass doors and walked softly towards him. Jaime sat up against the headboard and spread his legs for her to settle between them, her back to his chest, her thighs against his.

            Jaime folded his arms around her and pressed his lips against her shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered.

            “It scares you. I know it does.”

            Jaime let out a long breath. “I don’t want to lose you, Sansa.”

            She twisted towards him, wide blue eyes roaming over his face. “Is that all that scares you? About loving me?”

            He nodded. “The rest…sometimes I think I was born to love you, Sansa. Or…born to be with you. To make you safe and happy.” He kissed her hair. “Some people are built to love each other,” he said carefully, trying to remember the words right. “Perfectly, like they’re made of the missing pieces. Others take a little more grease, but in the end the gears spin stronger than before.”

            Sansa shifted slightly to look up at him. The corners of her mouth pulled into a smile. “Who said that?”

            Jaime chuckled. “My mother.”

            “She sounds like a smart woman.”

            Jaime pushed back the locks framing Sansa’s face, curling them behind her ear. “She would have loved you,” he told her. “Would have been so proud to call you her daughter.”

            Sansa’s smile faded, replaced by shining eyes and lips pressed together. “Jaime…”

            His thumb brushed the corner of her lips, quieting her. “I want to do this right, Sansa. If you want that. I can’t promise you your family back, or a life without my father chasing us. But I can promise you myself, and whatever kinda life we can build together. No matter how long it lasts.”

            She turned, and she kissed him, and when the boat left that Sunday, Jaime knew her answer was yes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. I hope you think it's a good one after all the shit I've put these two through...Thank you so, so much to everyone who's read and commented through this crazy (long) fic. My fics usually turn into everlasting WiPs, but after all the encouragement with this story, I really wanted to push for that ending. And honestly I love this story so much that I'm thinking about eventually turning it into an original work after some revision. I'm thinking about the names Clementine and Jackson, what do you think? :D
> 
> So what now? I'm starting my final year of college soon, so I don't expect to have any long projects in the near future. However if anyone wants to send requests of pairings or prompts or requests of any kind to my askbox, please feel free! I'd love to write a little here and there for ya'll. Find me on tumblr @not-so-quiet-on-the-inside 
> 
> Again, THANK YOU!


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